SEVEN    DREAMERS 


BY 
ANNIE    TRUMBULL    SLOSSON 


.  .  .  "/  talk  of  dreams; 
Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy.'"'' 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET 


NEW   YORK  AND   LONDON 
HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1890,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rtghtt  rtterved. 


I-M 


CONTENTS.     | 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY      ........         I 

I.    HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT        ...       1} 
II.    BOTANY   BAY  .      .      .      .    *  *      .      .      .      .      49 

III.  AUNT  RANDY 83 

IV.  FISHIN*  JIMMY ..,111 

V.    BUTTERNEGGS 8    145 

VI.    DEACON   PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR  .      .      .    189 

vii.  A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST    .......  237 


INTRODUCTORY. 

"No,  I  don't  call  Cap'n  Burdick  crazy,"  said 
my  good  old  friend,  Aunt  Gharry,  as  we  look 
ed  out  on  the  quiet  village  street.  "  He's  right 
enough  about  everything  but  one;  smart,  fore 
handed,  a  good  farmer,  and  a  consistent  church 
member.  There's  only  jest  one  little  thing 
that  makes  him  different  from  other  folks,  and 
that's  his  thinkin'  that  the  millennium's  over 
and  done  with  instead  o'  comin',  and  that  he 
rec'lects  it  all.  Get  him  on  ary  other  topic 
and  you'd  never  notice  anything  queer  about 
his  talk.  But  jest  as  he's  goin'  on  smooth 
and  sensible,  and  you  thinkin'  what  a  smart, 
knowledgable  man  he  is,  something  will  be 
sure  to  bring  up  that  notion  of  his.  And  he'll 
go  on  about  what  a  beautiful  time  it  was,  and 
how  queer  it  looked  to  see  the  wolves  dwell- 
in'  with  the  lambs,  and  the  leopard  layin' 
down  with  the  kids,  and  the  children  leadin' 
'em,  and  he'll  talk  so  earnest  about  it  all — his 
voice  shaky  and  his  eyes  wet — as  he  tells  how 
the  deserts  blossomed  like  the  rose,  and  the 
parched  ground  become  a  pool;  how  they 
I 


'2'  •'  INTRODUCTORY. 

beat  up  their  swords  into  ploughshares  and 
their  spears  into  prunin'-hooks,  that  you  can't 
misdoubt  he  believes  it  every  single  word; 
and  when  he  says,  real  low  and  softly,  'And 
sorrer  and  sighin'  did  all  flee  away,'  why, 
you're  nigh  onto  believin'  it  yourself,  and 
wishin'  you'd  lived  in  them  days.  Now,  that 
isn't  bein'  crazy;  it's  jest  kind  o'  dreamin'. 
I've  had  dreams  myself  jest  as  real  and  nat'ral 
as  that,  and  couldn't  scasly  believe  sometimes 
after  I  woke  up  that  they  hadn't  act'ally 
happened.  But  you  see  I  did  wake  up,  and 
the  cap'n  never  has.  That's  the  difference. 
There's  lots  o'  that  sort ;  dreamin'  awake's 
about  as  common's  dreamin'  asleep.  That's 
what  I  hold.  And  as  long  as  the  dreams  are 
pleasant,  comfortable  ones — not  nightmares, 
o'  course — why,  I  sometimes  think  the  people 
that  lives  in  'em  are  about  as  happy  as  other 
folks,  and  maybe  happier.  I'm  sure  they're  a 
sight  more  interestin'  to  talk  with.  You  see, 
they've  got  somethin'  that  don't  change,  and 
that's  a  dreadful  comfort  in  this  alterin'  and 
twistin'  and  turnin'  world.  Real  things  allers 
have  to  alter  somehow  here;  make-believe 
ones  don't.  So,  with  these  dreamin'  folks, 
crops  may  fail,  their  creaturs  die,  their  chil 
dren  dishonor  'em,  elections  go  wrong,  and 
Church  meetin's  get  off  the  right  track — every- 


INTRODUCTORY.  3 

thing  real  may  be  in  a  stir  and  a  mix  and 
a  muddle — but  their  dreams  go  right  straight 
along,  allers  jest  the  same,  smooth  and  quiet 
and  peaceful  like. 

''And  they've  got  what  they  want,  too,  in 
them  dreams,  and  if  they  waked  up — in  this 
world,  I  mean — they  wouldn't  have  it.  There's 
everything  in  the  Bible,  ain't  they  ?  I'm  for 
ever  a-quotin'  from  it,  as  you  know.  Folks 
laugh  at  me  about  it,  but  somehow  there's  al 
lers  somethin'  there  that  expresses  my  mean- 
in'  better'n  I  could  put  it  into  talk  myself. 
I'm  readin'  it  in  course,  now,  and  only  the 
other  day  I  come  to  a  place  in  Isaiah  where  it 
treats  o'  this,  and  it  says,  'A  hungry  man 
dreameth,  and,  behold,  he  eateth ;  but  he  awak- 
eth,  and  his  soul  is  empty:  a  thirsty  man 
dreameth,  and,  behold,  he  drinketh;  but  he 
awaketh,  and,  behold,  he  is  faint.'  And  so  'tis. 

"  Why,  I  'most  wish  I  could  dream  that  way 
myself,  and  so  have  somethin'  that  didn't  and 
couldn't  ever  happen  divert  my  mind,'s  they 
say,  from  the  things  that  allers  are  a-happenin'. 

"There  was  Uncle  Enoch  Stark,  over  to 
Derby  Plains ;  he  was  one  of  the  contentedest 
men  I  ever  knew.  His  dream  was  about  his 
sister  Lucilly,  that  died  a  baby  afore  he  was 
born,  and  how  she  was  still  livin'  and  out 
West  somewheres.  It  don't  seem  much  to 


4  INTRODUCTORY. 

tell  of,  but  I  can  tell  you  it  made  a  wonderful 
difference  in  that  old  man's  life.  You  see,  he 
hadn't  any  folks,  and  he'd  'a'  been  mighty 
lonesome.  But  there  was  allers  somethin' 
happenin'  to  Lucilly  or  her  family — she  had  a 
large  one,  it  seems — and  it  give  him  enough 
to  think  on.  He  was  forever  a-plannin'  to  go 
and  see  her;  went  so  fur  sometimes  as  to 
pack  his  carpet-bag.  But  'twas  too  much  of 
a  undertaking  and  he  give  it  up.  When  he 
took  his  last  sickness  he  wanted  Lucilly  sent 
for,  but  he  went  off  sudden,  and  hadn't  any 
time  to  worry  about  it.  And  I  sometimes  try 
to  guess  what  he  thought  and  said  and  done 
when  he  saw  the  real  Lucilly  in  the  next 
world — jest  a  baby,  you  know,  that  died  o' 
teethin'.  But  there,  I  know  'twas  all  right 
then,  'Like  a  dream  when  one  awaketh,'  as 
the  Bible  says. 

"And  in  New  Granby,  where  I  was  born, 
you  know,  there  was  Lucy  Ann  Breed,  a  mas 
ter-hand  at  dreamin',  I  can  tell  you.  For 
what  do  you  think  her  notion  was  but  that 
she  writ  the  Pilgrim's  Progress!  Poor  Lucy 
Ann!  Folks  called  her  crazy,  and  made  sech 
fun  of  her!  But  she  was  a  hard-workin',  pa 
tient,  self-denyin'  woman,  and  smarter  than 
many  o'  them  that  laughed  at  her.  She  had  a 
crippled  brother  with  the  rickets,  and  did  for 


INTRODUCTORY.  5 

him  year  after  year,  though  'twas  a  pretty  hard 
struggle  sometimes.  But  her  queer  dream 
fetched  her  right  along  through  everything. 
You  wouldn't  'a'  thought  it  so  dreadful  funny, 
neither,  if  you'd  seen  her  face — she  was  real 
homely  and  hard-featur'd — kind  o'  light  up  as 
she  was  talkin',  like  Steeple  Rock  there  when 
the  sun  shines  on  it.  She  was  a  Christian, 
if  there  ever  was  one,  and  she  was  so  humble 
and  thankful  to  think  she'd  gone  and  done  so 
much  good  to  souls  with  her  'poor  little  book.' 
'  Tain't  me,'  she'd  say,  the  tears  a-rainin' 
down  her  thin,  sailer  face;  'don't  praise  me; 
'twas  put  into  my  heart  to  do  it,  and  I  jest 
writ  what  was  telled  me.' 

"Well,  she's  awake  now,  but  she's  'satis 
fied,'  for  Scripter  says  so.  And  maybe  she's 
met  old  Mr.  Bunyan  himself  afore  now.  I 
guess  he  won't  begrudge  her  the  comfort  she 
got  out  o'  thinkin'  she  made  up  his  book,  for 
he  was  sort  o'  given  to  dreamin'  himself,  you 
know. 

"Why,  I  haven't  ever  lived  or  been  in  a  New 
England  village  myself  where  there  wasn't  one 
or  more  sech  folks.  You've  known  some 
yourself,  too.  You  rec'lect  Wrestlin'  Billy,  that 
lived  on  Double  Pond,  I  know.  Now,  did  you 
ever  meet  a  much  better  man  than  him  ?  Pi 
ous,  prayin',  quiet,  peace -makin',  char'table; 


6  INTRODUCTORY. 

he  was  all  that,  and  more.  But  some  time 
or  other,  you  know,  Billy'd  dreamed  that  he'd 
wrestled  once  with  a  angel,  like  Jacob,  and  he 
never  waked  up  out  o'  that  dream.  But  what 
harm  come  of  it,  anyway  ?  I  hold  that  he 
was  a  better  man  for  it,  somehow.  You've 
heard  him  tell  about  it,  haven't  you  ?  Don't 
you  rec'lect  how  earnest  and  excited  he'd  get, 
so  proud,  and  yet  humble  at  the  same  time, 
tellin'  o'  that  awful  fight  in  the  night-time, 
when  he  couldn't  see  who  he  was  a-strugglin' 
with  ?  Wasn't  it  creepy  and  scarey  to  hear 
him  cry  out,  so  loud  and  shrill  like,  '  I  will  not 
let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me  ?' 

"My!  my!  I  never  could  keep  from  believ- 
in'  in  that  story  while  he  was  a-tellin'  it,  could 
you  ?  nor  from  bein'  glad,  either,  when  'twas 
all  over,  the  break  o'  day  come,  and  Billy 
had  pervailed.  Don't  you  know  how  tired 
out  he'd  look  after  the  wrestlin'  part  was  end 
ed,  and  how  he'd  wipe  off  his  face  and  catch 
his  breath  and  whisper  out,'s  well  as  he  could, 
'  An'  he  blessed  me  there  ?' 

''And  there  was  Jerry  Whaples,  o'  Groton 
Corners;  I  don't  know  but  his  idee  was  the 
unusualest  of  any  I've  come  acrost,  for  he  took 
for  his  motter  and  watchword  and  war-cry, 
as  you  might  say,  through  his  whole  life  long, 
a  verse  from  the  Bible  that  never  seemed  to 


INTRODUCTORY.  7 

have  much  meanin'  to  anybody  else.  But  it 
jest  helped  him  along  through  everything. 
It's  in  Isaiah ;  I've  looked  it  up  lots  o'  times, 
and  tried  to  get  some  comfort  out  of  it:  'At 
Michmash  he  hath  laid  up  his  carriages/ 
Ain't  that  queer,  now  ?  Think  o'  that  for  a 
help  and  a  comfort  and  a  restin'-place !  But 
'twas  all  that  to  Jerry.  He  had  awful  troubles 
— lost  his  wife  and  every  child,  one  after  the 
other;  had  his  house  and  barn  burned  down 
— had  sickness  and  sorrer  and  trouble.  But 
through  everything  that  passage,  that  seems 
so  holler  and  empty  o'  comfort  or  even  mean- 
in'  to  us,  by  itself,  carried  him  safe  along. 
I've  heard  him  say  it  in  sech  dreadful  times, 
enough  to  make  a  man's  faith  give  way,  I 
tell  you.  And  when  it  come  out  in  that  trem- 
blin'  voice,  and  him  a-smilin'  through  his 
cryin',  why,  it  some  way  appeared  even  to 
me  to  have  somethin'  deep  and  holy  and 
comfortin'  in  the  sound.  'At  Michmash  he 
hath  laid  up  his  carriages.'  I  can't  laugh  about 
it  as  some  do.  I  believe  some  way  there  is  a 
meanin'  to  it,  and  'twas  showed  to  old  Jerry 
in  his  dream.  For  a  verse  that  lifts  a  bein' 
out  o'  sech  dreadful  pits  o'  sorrer,  strengthens 
him  in  battle,  and  comforts  him  till  he  can 
smile  even  through  his  cryin',  and  what's 
more,  helps  him  to  die  the  death  o'  the  right- 


8  INTRODUCTORY. 

eous — for  'twas  what  he  stammered  out,  a 
word  at  a  time,  jest  before  he  shet  his  eyes 
forever — why,  it  must,  it  must  have  somethin' 
to  it  we're  too  wide-awake  to  get  hold  of. 
Yes,  he  jest  breathed  it  out  at  the  last,  so  low 
that  they  couldn't  hardly  catch  it,  'At  Mich- 
mash,'  says  he,  softly,  and  smilin'  's  he  speaks, 
'  he — hath — laid  up — his — carriages, '  and  he 
was  gone! 

"  Reuben  Davison,  down  Bethel  way,  that 
allers  had  a  child's  high-chair  put  close  by  him 
at  table,  he  must  'a'  been  dreamin'  somethin', 
though  nobody  ever  knew  what.  He'd  never 
had  chick  nor  child  of  his  own,  as  fur's  any 
one  knew,  and  he  was  a  hard,  harsh  kind  o' 
man.  But  they  tell  me  there  was  a  terr'ble 
soft,  lovin'  sort  o'  look  would  come  all  over 
his  featur's  sometimes  when  he  looked  at  that 
chair — jest  a  plain,  cheap  wooden  one,  you 
know,  but  a  child's,  and  high. 

"Deacon  Levi,  as  they  called  him,  who 
used  to  go  to  the  door  on  dark  stormy  nights 
and  hold  up  a  lantern's  if  he  was  lightin' 
some  one  home,  and  call  out  so  kind  o'  piti 
ful,  'Mary,  Mary;'  old  Mis'  Prentice,  over  in 
Bradley,  a  real  meek,  softly  little  woman,  who 
allers  declared  to  the  last  that  she'd  been  a 
pirate  years  ago,  but  was  a  changed  woman 
now;  'Perpetual  Motion  Neddy,'  from  acrost 


INTRODUCTORY.  9 

the  river;  Dr.  Weaver,  that  shet  himself  up 
the  tenth  o'  every  month,  and  wore  a  woman's 
bonnet  from  sunrise  to  sunset — they  were  all 
a-dreamin',  dreamin',  every  soul  of  'em. 

4 'They  have  different  names  for  sech  folks. 
They  say  they're  'cracked,'  they've  'got  a 
screw  loose,'  they're  'a  little  off,'  they  'ain't 
all  there/  and  so  on.  But  nothin'  accounts 
for  their  notions  so  well  to  my  mind  as  to  say 
they're  all  jest  dreamin'.  It's  the  way  o'  the 
world  to  laugh  at  'em,  and  it  allers  was,  back 
to  the  time  when  Joseph's  brothers  got  to 
gether  and  whispered  about  him,  and  said, 
'Behold,  this  dreamer  cometh.'  But  they'd 
be  missed,  I  tell  you,  out  o'  the  village  they 
live  in — they're  mostly  country  folks,  you 
know — more'n  some  o'  the  wide-awake  ones. 
I'm  sure  I  rec'lect  some  o'  them  I've  known 
years  back  better  than  ary  other  folks,  and  I 
think  of  'em  more  frequent.  And  I'm  glad — 
I  ain't  ashamed  to  say  it — that  they  never 
waked  up  this  side  o'  heaven,  'till  the  day 
breaks  and  the  shadders  flee  away,'  's  Script- 
er  says.  And  what's  more,  I  believe — when 
they  look  back  on  those  soothin',  sleepy,  com- 
fortin'  idees  o'  theirn,  that  somehow  helped 
'em  along  through  all  the  pesterin'  worry  and 
frettin'  trouble  o'  this  world — I  believe,  I  say, 
that  they're  glad  too.  You'll  think  I'm  no 


10  INTRODUCTORY. 


more'n  a  dreamer  myself  when  I  tell  you  that 
sometimes  as  I  set  here,  thinkin'  I  can  'most 
hear  'em,  one  after  another,  speakin'  from  'way 
up  there  somewheres  and  sayin',  in  the  words 
o'  Scripter,  '  I  awaked  and  beheld,  and  my 
sleep  was  sweet  unto  me.'  " 


I. 

HOW  FAITH  CAME  AND    WENT. 

"A  dream  of  home,  a  dream  of  home" 

Moore. 


HOW  FAITH  CAME  AND  WENT. 

1  HAVE  never  told  the  story  till  now.  No 
one  ever  knew  it  all  except  Max  and  me,  and 
Max  is  dead.  She  is  gone,  too,  poor  child  ; 
so  no  one  can  be  troubled  by  the  tale,  and 
I  should  like  to  tell  the  whole  truth  before 
I  too  go  away.  I  need  not  go  further  back 
than  the  day  she  first  came  to  us ;  the  story 
really  begins  there.  Of  Max's  life  before  that 
day,  and  of  mine,  no  one  will  care  to  hear, 
and  I  do  not  care  to  speak.  Max  was  a  doc 
tor,  and  a  good  one,  I  think,  having  many 
patients,  who  loved  and  trusted  him  well. 
He  was  not  yet  thirty,  but  he  seemed  older, 
being  grave  and  quiet — made  so  by  things 
which  had  happened  in  that  past  of  which  I 
am  not  going  to  speak — and  I  was  his  sister, 
ten  years  older;  a  plain,  shy,  silent  woman, 
but  the  only  one  he  had  ever  loved,  for  he 
did  not  remember  his  mother.  We  lived 
together  in  Sudbury,  a  little  New  England 


14  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

village,  and  there  we  were  quietly  happy  in 
our  small  but  cosey  house. 

I  am  an  old  woman  now,  but  I  remember 
as  if  it  were  yesterday  just  how  everything 
looked  on  that  day — the  day  my  story  begins. 
The  village  street  ran  east  and  west ;  our 
house,  with  its  little  yard  in  front,  stood  on 
that  street  and  faced  the  south.  It  was  early 
in  June,  but  the  season  was  backward ;  my 
roses  were  as  yet  only  green  buds,  but  I  had 
been  at  work  among  them,  fastening  a  spray 
here,  picking  off  there  a  dead  leaf,  and  brush 
ing  the  dust  away.  The  sun  was  low ;  it 
was  late  afternoon ;  I  walked  to  the  gate  and 
looked  down  the  street,  for  it  was  time  to 
expect  Max.  I  can  see  that  street  now  just 
as  it  looked  then.  A  heavy  farm  wagon  was 
lumbering  along,  raising  clouds  of  dust — there 
had  been  little  rain  that  spring — and  as  I  look 
ed  towards  the  west  the  sun,  so  low  down 
then,  shone  through  that  dusty  cloud,  and 
made  it  like  yellow  gold  in  the  air,  and 
through  that  misty  brightness  she  was  com 
ing  to  me.  From  the  west,  down  the  village 
street,  I  saw  a  figure  walking  towards  me.  It 


HOW  FAITH  CAME  AND  WENT.  15 

was  a  young  girl,  slight  and  rather  tall.  I 
could  not  see  her  face  plainly  against  the 
brightness,  and  I  waited  for  her.  I  knew  all 
the  young  folk  of  the  village,  and  they  had 
ever  a  pleasant  word  or  smile  for  the  doctor's 
old-maid  sister.  But  as  I  stood  at  the  open 
gate  looking  towards  her,  I  saw  that  she  was 
a  stranger.  I  had  never  seen  that  slight  young 
form,  the  pretty  head,  with  the  bright  loose 
hair  about  the  forehead,  seeming  part  of  the 
sunset's  misty  glow,  those  soft  brown  eyes, 
that  wistful  mouth.  Yes,  she  was  certainly  a 
stranger;  but,  as  I  thought  this,  a  smile,  which 
was  surely  a  recognizing  one,  broke  over  the 
face,  and  the  light  steps  were  quickened.  I 
had  seen  that  she  wore  a  simple  print  gown  of 
blue  and  white,  and  that  her  straw  hat  with  its 
blue  ribbon  was  swinging  by  its  looped  strings 
upon  one  arm.  With  a  half-impatient,  weary 
air  she  shook  back  her  light  loose  hair,  and 
stretching  out  towards  me  her  small,  pretty 
hands,  she  said:  "You  are  waiting  for  me. 
Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  be  at  home!" 

People  nowadays   are   taught   to   take   to 
pieces  and  examine  their  feelings,  and  after- 


l6  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

wards  explain  them  to  others.  I  never  learn 
ed  this,  and  I  cannot  tell  you,  after  all  these 
years,  just  how  I  felt  when  this  strange  young 
thing,  whom  I  had  never  before  seen,  looked 
at  and  spoke  to  me  thus,  but  I  know  I  was 
greatly  amazed.  For  an  instant  I  felt  a  bodily 
dizziness,  as  when  I  had  suddenly  risen  'from 
stooping  over  my  flower-beds ;  my  head 
swam,  and  before  I  could  speak,  the  sweet, 
childish  voice  began  again:  "Am  I  late?  I 
have  taken  such  a  long  walk,  and  it  grew  so 
warm !  You  are  not  vexed  with  me  ?"  And 
the  two  small,  pretty  hands  clasped  my  arm, 
while  the  brown,  soft  eyes  looked  into  mine. 

What  I  should  have  said  I  do  not  know 
There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  guess  that,  for  at 
that  very  instant  I  saw  Max  coming.  He  was 
at  the  gate  almost  before  I  knew  it,  and  look 
ing  curiously  at  us  two.  Then  I  found  my 
voice,  and  gasped  out, ' '  Oh,  Max !"  That  was 
all.  But  at  the  words  the  child  turned  towards 
him  with  a  bright  look  of  welcome,  but  no 
surprise,  and  with  a  faint,  soft  blush,  said,  in 
her  low,  sweet  voice, "  Dear  Max!" 

When  I  try  to  remember  the  look  that  came 


HOW   FAITH  CAME  AND  WENT.  17 

upon  my  brother's  face  at  these  words  I  find 
that  I  am  looking  at  it  in  the  light  of  what 
came  afterwards ;  and  it  seems  as  if  even  then 
there  was  no  start  of  wonder,  no  amaze,  only 
gladness  and  answering  love  in  that  look  as 
he  bent  it  on  her.  But  I  know  that  I  turned 
quickly  towards  him,  and  tried  to  convey  by 
a  look  the  thought  which  had  just  come  to  me, 
the  feeling  that  the  child's  mind  was  astray, 
and  we  must  aid  her.  That  he  read  my  mean 
ing  at  once  was  owing  to  no  skill  of  mine,  but 
to  his  own  quickness — Max  was  so  clever  al 
ways.  Taking  the  little  hand  she  had  laid 
upon  his  arm,  he  said,  in  a  quiet,  natural  voice, 

"Let  us  go  into  the  house  now  and  have 
our  tea." 

And  we  all  went  in.  As  we  entered  the  lit 
tle  sitting-room  the  girl,  walking  with  no  un 
certain  tread,  but  as  if  she  knew  the  place, 
took  her  hand  from  Max's  arm  and  stepped 
lightly  towards  the  looking-glass  which  hung 
between  the  windows. 

"Oh,  how  my  hair  is  blown  about!"  she 
said,  with  a  laugh  in  her  voice.     "Shall  I  run 
up-stairs  and  smooth  it  ?" 
2 


1 8  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

"No,  dear.  Just  come  into  my  room  now, 
you  are  so  tired."  And  I  led  the  way  into  my 
little  bedroom  on  the  first  floor,  and  left  her 
there.  Then  in  hurried  words  I  told  Max  all  I 
knew.  "  There  is  something  wrong  with  the 
brain,"  he  said,  ''and  she  has  wandered  away 
from  her  friends.  Do  not  excite  or  startle  her ; 
let  her  rest  quietly  to-night,  and  we  will  de 
cide  what  course  to  take." 

Then  she  came  back  to  us,  and  we  had  our 
tea.  She  was  quiet,  seeming  tired,  but  there 
was  no  flush  of  fever  on  her  face,  no  wild, 
unsettled  look  in  the  soft  brown  eyes.  Max 
talked,  told  of  his  patients,  spoke  of  the  village 
news,  and  sometimes  the  girl  would  say  some 
thing  of  her  walk,  of  the  sunset,  of  the  flowers 
on  the  table — always  in  that  strangely  sweet 
childish  voice,  which  seemed  then,  as  ever 
afterwards,  the  best  music  I  had  ever  heard. 
Then,  later,  she  went,  quite  of  her  own  ac 
cord,  to  the  piano,  and  ran  her  fingers  over  the 
keys,  playing  little  bits,  some  new  and  strange 
to  us,  some  old  and  familiar.  Then  her  voice 
sounded  faint  but  sweet  as  she  sang  softly  to 
herself.  Suddenly  the  strain  grew  louder,  and 


HOW   FAITH  CAME  AND  WENT.  19 

we  knew  the  air  and  words,  and  looked 
quickly  at  each  other. 

The  dear  old  song  heard  so  long  ago,  in  our 
very  childhood,  and  never  since  till  now. 
"  The  old  days,  the  dear  days,  where  are  they  ?" 

So  it  rang  out,  as  from  that  far-away  past,  and 
we  forgot  the  present — forgot  the  strangely 
quiet  child  sitting  there  in  the  dim  summer 
twilight,  and  thought  only  of  our  dead. 
"  The  old  days,  the  dear  days,  where  are  they  ?" 

The  voice  died  away,  the  sad  questioning  was 
stilled,  and  a  little  form  sank  quietly  to  the 
floor,  and  lay  there  white  and  still. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  and  terri 
ble  illness,  a  kind  of  brain-fever,  but  with  some 
complications  which  seemed  to  puzzle  the  doc 
tors,  one  and  all,  for  Max  called  to  his  aid  other, 
but  I  am  sure  not  wiser,  heads.  And  all  the 
time  most  careful  and  diligent  search  was 
made  for  the  child's  friends — for  some  clew  to 
the  mystery  of  her  coming — but  all  in  vain. 
Advertisements,  inquiries,  and  even  the  assist 
ance  of  experienced  detectives  all  failed  utterly. 
She  had  been  seen  at  the  far  end  of  the  village 


20  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

street,  and  from  there  onward  to  our  door,  on 
the  afternoon  she  came  to  us,  but  further  back 
than  that  we  could  not  trace  her.  She  herself 
could  not  be  questioned.  For  many  days  she 
knew  no  one,  and  lay  sometimes  in  a  strange 
quiet  almost  like  death  itself,  then  again  in  de 
lirium,  with  quick  excited  talk.  But  from  no 
speech  of  hers  could  we  learn  anything  save 
that  she  was  gently  bred,  and  that  there  seem 
ed  nothing  in  her  young  soul  that  was  not 
white  and  sweet.  So  the  days  went  on.  We 
had  laid  her  in  the  airy  pleasant  bedroom  up 
stairs,  where  years  before  our  little  sister  slept, 
the  young  sister  whom  we  had  laid  away  with 
many  tears  in  the  sad  past.  And  while  watch 
ing  and  nursing  the  young  stranger  there  in 
that  sacred  room  we  grew  at  times  almost  to 
think  that  our  dead  was  again  with  us,  and 
we  loved  her  as  our  own.  Max  was  unwea 
ried  in  his  care,  watching  day  and  night,  and  I 
was  almost  always  at  her  bedside.  There  was 
nothing  painful  or  distressing  in  the  girl's  talk, 
even  when  most  excited.  Hour  after  hour  the 
sweet  voice  would  run  on,  telling  of  childish 
play,  of  country  sights  and  sounds,  of  lessons 


HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  21 

learned,  of  work,  or  play,  or  study.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  we  watched  eagerly  for  names, 
either  of  people  or  places,  which  should  aid 
us  in  our  search  for  her  friends;  but  nothing 
came.  She  spoke  of ' '  the  hill, "  ' '  the  bridge, " 
of  " down  the  river;"  she  called  the  "girls"  and 
the  "children,"  she  asked  why  the  "horses" 
did  not  come,  and  if  the  "grass"  was  cut.  But 
that  was  all.  In  her  whole  illness  of  many 
weeks  no  name  ever  passed  her  lips,  and  all 
her  past  was  still  a  sealed  book  to  us,  when 
one  day  in  midsummer  the  wandering,  far 
away  look  left  her  eyes,  and  the  soul  came 
back  to  the  child. 

Max  and  I  were  both  with  her;  no  one  else 
was  there.  She  had  been  sleeping  a  long  time 
sweetly  and  quietly.  Again  and  again  I  had 
bent  over  her,  and  seen  the  white  lids  still  shut 
down,  and  heard  the  soft  regular  breathing. 
But  at  last,  as  I  stood  at  her  side  and  Max  sat 
by  the  window,  both  of  us  looking  at  the  pale 
thin  face  upon  the  pillow,  the  brown  eyes  open 
ed,  and  we  saw,  both  of  us  at  once,  that  she 
seemed  to  know  us.  We  were  silent,  watch 
ful,  for  an  instant,  and  then  saw  the  eyes 


22  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

turn  towards  the  window,  a  light  come  into 
them,  the  hands  reach  feebly  out  towards  the 
sunlight  and  him,  and  she  murmured,  as  on 
that  first  June  day  when  she  came  to  us, 
" Dear  Max!" 

Ah,  well,  I  find  I  cannot  remember  it  all  as 
well  as  I  thought  I  could.  What  did  Max  do 
then,  what  did  I  do,  as  we  saw  that  with  the 
light  of  reason  there  yet  came  no  light  upon 
the  child's  past  ?  I  do  not  seem  to  recall  the 
steps  by  which  we  came  to  see  that  she  was 
our  own,  a  part  of  our  present  lives,  belonging 
to  us  and  to  our  history,  and  to  no  one  else  on 
earth,  and  that  we  could  no  more  send  her 
from  us  than  we  could  have  driven  away  our 
own  flesh  and  blood. 

As  far  as  we  could  see,  she  had  no  past.  If 
God  had  made  her  newly  that  June  day,  and 
set  her  down  fresh  and  sweet  and  unstained 
in  our  village  street  on  that  golden  summer 
afternoon,  she  could  not  have  seemed  more 
wholly  devoid  of  a  history,  a  hitherto.  Her 
convalescence  was  slow,  she  was  so  very 
weak,  and  she  could  learn  of  us,  of  our  life, 
and  of  all  her  surroundings  gradually,  a  little  at 


HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  2} 

a  time,  as  a  child  learns  its  home  and  friends. 
She  may  have  learned  in  that  way;  I  do  not 
know;  but  nothing  ever  seemed  as  if  new  and 
strange  to  her,  or  appeared  to  surprise  her  as 
unfamiliar.  I  can  never  remember  when  she 
first  spoke  my  name.  Max  called  me  by  it — 
Ruth — and  she  soon  used  the  name  as  though 
she  had  always  known  it.  In  the  days  of  her 
great  feebleness  she  spoke  little  but  our  names 
and  the  names  of  the  things  she  needed  or 
wished  for.  As  she  grew  stronger  she  talked 
more  with  us,  but  it  was  of  the  things  about 
her,  of  her  illness  and  our  loving  care. 

''How  long  have  I  been  sick?"  she  asked, 
one  day,  and  we  told  her.  "Yes,"  she  said. 
"It  is  August  now — is  it  not? — and  I  was 
taken  ill  that  day  in  June  after  my  long  walk." 
And  again  she  said,  "It  seems  like  a  dream, 
these  long  weeks,  and  I  remember  nothing 
distinctly  since  I  sat  singing  to  you  and  Max 
that  last  evening." 

Among  the  doctors  who  were  called  in  to 
see  her  during  her  illness  was  one  who  was 
skilled  in  nervous  ailments,  and  who  knew, 
oh,  so  much  !  of  the  workings  of  the.  brain. 


24  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

He  seemed  wonderfully  interested  in  the  pa 
tient,  and  watched  her  closely  and  curiously. 
I  used  to  hear  him  and  Max  talking,  and  tried 
to  understand,  but  I  could  not  follow  them.  It 
was  all  about  the  little  girl's  brain,  and  the  part 
of  it  which  had  gone  wrong,  and  the  "gray 
matter"  there,  and  how  it  would  come  all 
right  with  returning  health,  and  she  would 
have  the  past  again  which  she  had  lost,  and 
know  that  the  present  and  we  and  our  lives 
were  new  and  foreign,  and  not  her  own.  I 
knew  they  were  very  wise,  and  that  I  was  very 
ignorant,  but  I  could  not  feel  that  they  were 
right  in  this.  Perhaps  I  did  not  want  to  be 
lieve  it;  for  I  loved  her  so,  and  I  was  begin 
ning  to  be  jealous  of  a  past  in  which  we — Max 
and  1 — had  no  part.  I  liked  to  think  that  she 
was  all  our  own,  that  God  gave  her  to  us,  all 
new  and  fresh  in  her  young  girlhood,  and  yet 
with  a  kind  of  memory  of  things  in  our  past 
which  somehow  made  it  her  own,  and  drew 
her  to  us.  I  am  growing  sadly  confused,  and 
am  quite  beyond  my  depth,  I  see.  You  can 
not  understand,  and  I  cannot  put  it  into  better 
words.  But  who  could  see  the  love  that  shone 


HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  25 

in  her  face  when  she  looked  at  us,  the  child 
like  trust  and  confidence  in  us,  and  believe 
that  she  had  not  at  least  dreamed  of  us  before  ? 
And,  oh,  how  can  I  tell  you  of  her  feeling  tow 
ards  Max  ?  No  one  could  possibly  mistake 
that.  There  was  no  room  for  doubt.  She  gave 
him  the  love  a  girl  gives  only  to  her  promised 
husband.  Something — I  know  not  what — 
had  given  her  the  right  to  love  him  so,  to  claim 
his  love.  And  Max  loved  her.  I  tell  it  abrupt 
ly,  but  it  did  not  come  as  a  sudden  revelation 
to  me.  I  seemed  to  know  it  from  the  first, 
and  without  any  surprise,  as  if  I  had  watched 
the  love-story  in  its  very  beginning,  and  knew 
how  it  would  end.  And  so,  without  asking  of 
his  or  consent  of  hers  (unless  in  some  dream 
land  we  knew  nothing  of),  they  were  plighted 
lovers.  Perhaps  you  will  wonder  that  we  did 
not,  as  she  grew  stronger,  question  her  as  to 
her  history.  We  dared  not,  for  fear  of  startling 
her,  and  frightening  away  the  reason  which 
had  just  come  back.  The  doctors  agreed  in 
this,  that  we  should  not  trouble  her  with  ques 
tions,  but  wait  with  what  patience  we  could 
for  the  memory  which  they  believed  would 


26  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

soon  return.  We  did  not  yet  know  what  to 
call  her.  Her  clothing  was  without  mark  of 
any  kind,  and  she  had  never  spoken  of  herself 
by  any  name.  I  have  said  that  in  the  years 
gone  by  we  had  lost  a  young  sister.  That  sis 
ter's  name  was  Faith,  and  it  was  dearer  to  us 
both  than  any  name  on  earth.  The  dead  girl's 
picture  hung  in  the  sitting-room  down-stairs, 
and  the  first  day  that  our  patient  was  carried 
there,  and  placed  on  the  sofa  under  the  win 
dows,  she  seemed  attracted  by  the  sweet  face 
in  the  picture.  She  lay  looking  at  it  a  long 
time  silently,  and  at  last  I  said,  "Do  you  think 
our  little  sister  Faith  is  like  me  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully;  "I  can 
never  see  any  look  in  her  face  like  yours, 
though  I  often  look  for  it.  I  have  always  been 
glad  that  my  name  was  Faith,  like  hers.  I 
think  you  love  me  better  for  that."  And  so  it 
was  we  came  to  call  her  by  that  dear  name, 
and  for  her  other  name  we  gave  her  ours. 

You  will  not  wonder  that  in  our  quiet  little 
village  the  story  of  our  strange  guest  made 
much  stir  and  talk.  We  said  as  little  as  pos 
sible  of  the  matter,  but  such  things  come  soon 


HOW    FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  27 

to  be  known  among  people  who  have  little 
excitement  in  their  dull  lives.  The  notices  in 
serted  in  the  local  papers,  the  inquiries  made, 
the  famous  doctors'  visits,  the  general  air  of 
mystery  about  our  visitor  and  her  illness,  were 
talked  and  gossiped  of  in  spite  of  all  we  could 
do.  And  I  saw  that  this  pained  Max  greatly. 
As  the  days  went  on,  and  no  word  came  to  us 
from  any  one  who  might  claim  the  girl,  and  as 
the  tie  between  him  and  her  grew  stronger 
and  tenderer,  he  shrank  from  any  questioning 
into  the  matter,  even  from  me,  and  the  village 
talk  was  intolerable ;  and  so  it  came  about  that 
he  accepted  an  offer  made  him  some  months 
before,  and  we  left  forever  our  old  home,  and 
went  to  a  town  hundreds  of  miles  distant, 
where  our  story  was  unknown.  And  here 
our  little  Faith,  bearing  our  name  and  living 
with  us,  was  supposed  to  be  some  relative, 
and  known  also  as  Max's  betrothed. 

You  would  hardly  think  that  a  person 
without  a  past,  or  at  least  lacking  the  memo 
ry  of  one,  would  seem  so  like  other  people, 
and  show  the  want  so  little.  I  cannot  tell 
you  why  this  was  so,  but  certainly  no  one 


28  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

appeared  to  notice  anything  strange  about  the 
girl,  and  we  ourselves  almost  forgot  at  times 
how  she  had  come  to  us.  I  can  remember, 
as  I  look  back,  some  things  she  said,  which 
from  time  to  time  recalled  the  mystery  of  her 
former  life,  and  made  us  wonder  again,  as  at 
first,  if  we  should  ever  know  more.  One  day 
we  had  been  reading  together  a  story  which 
told  of  a  mother's  devotion  —  a  pretty  tale 
— and  Faith  was  very  thoughtful  afterwards. 
She  sat  looking  into  the  fire  silently,  and  then 
startled  me  by  asking : 

"Ruth,  do  I  remember  my  mother?" 
"What  do  you  think,  dear?"  I  said. 
She  answered  slowly,  as  if  trying  to  recall 
something:  "Sometimes  I  think  I  do,  not  as  a 
person  whose  face  or  form  I  can  at  all  remem 
ber,  but  as  a  love,  a  tenderness,  a  great  beau 
tiful  care  all  about  me,  something  that  pitied 
and  was  sorry  for  me,  and — "  Her  voice  died 
away,  and  she  sat  thinking  again;  then  sud 
denly  said,  "But  it  goes  away,  and  then  it  is 
you  I  remember,  and  all  your  goodness  to 
me."  She  left  her  seat,  and  coming  over  to 
me,  knelt  down,  and  putting  her  arms  about 


HOW   FAITH   CAME  AND   WENT.  2t) 

me,  said,  "  I  have  not  needed  my  mother,  dear 
Ruth,  you  have  been  so  good,  so  loving ;  I 
have  not  needed  anything  with  you  and  Max." 
I  was  so  glad  she  said  that!  Were  we  indeed 
taking  the  place  of  anything  bright  and  beau 
tiful  she  might  have  had  in  that  unknown 
world  of  hers  ? 

Certainly  she  was  very  happy.  I  do  not  say 
much  of  the  love  which  she  and  Max  bore 
each  other;  it  is  something  I  cannot  talk  of. 
Max  had  never  loved  before;  his  had  been  a 
troubled  life,  with  many  cares  and  some  bitter 
sorrows.  And  his  whole  heart  went  out  with 
a  mighty  love  towards  this  fair  young  thing, 
who  came  to  him  that  summer  day  from  some 
unknown  world  where  she  had  loved  and 
trusted  and  belonged  to  him  while  yet  he 
knew  it  not.  They  were  to  be  married  in 
June.  "I  will  wait  a  year,"  Max  had  said  to 
me.  "If  we  hear  nothing  before  that  time,  I 
shall  surely  have  the  right  to  take  her  for  my 
wife." 

I  have  said  that  during  her  illness  no  name 
ever  passed  her  lips.  But  afterwards,  in  the 
winter,  she  spoke  two  or  three  names  we  did 


3O  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

not  know.  She  had  taken  a  slight  cold,  and 
was  somewhat  feverish.  I  had  gone  to  her 
bedside  before  I  slept  to  give  her  a  good-night 
kiss.  As  I  stooped  over  her  she  said,  drowsi 
ly,  as  if  half  asleep,  "Are  we  going  back  to 
Greenmore  to-morrow?"  I  caught  at  the 
name — the  first  she  had  ever  spoken  which 
might  tell  us  anything — and  asked,  "Where 
is  Greenmore,  Faith  ?"  She  opened  her  eyes 
wider,  looked  strangely  at  me  for  just  one  in 
stant,  then  said,  "I  meant  Sudbury;"  and  fur 
ther  questioning  brought  nothing  more.  She 
did  not  know  Greenmore;  she  meant  Sud 
bury,  so  she  kept  saying.  But  I  told  Max,  and 
he  agreed  with  me  that  we  must  follow  out 
this  new  clew.  No  town  bearing  the  name 
of  Greenmore  could  be  found.  You  may  be 
sure  that  though  Max  dreaded  unspeakably 
finding  those  who  might  take  our  little  one 
away,  still  he  was  conscientious  and  pains 
taking  in  his  search.  But  he  sought  in  vain. 
When  we  had  quite  given  up  the  search  there 
was  found  in  an  old  town  history,  among 
some  books  belonging  to  our  father,  the  name 
we  were  looking  for;  but  it  was  given  as  the 


HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND  WENT.  ^T 

ancient  name  of  a  village  now  bearing  another 
and  quite  different  one.  However,  Max  went 
there,  taking  a  long  journey  to  the  spot.  He 
found  a  busy  manufacturing  village  called  Mill- 
burg,  and  was  assured  that  it  had  never  borne 
any  other  name.  But  on  looking  up  and  ques 
tioning  some  of  the  oldest  inhabitants  he  was 
told  that  the  first  site  of  the  town  was  on  a 
bleak  hill  several  miles  away.  Many  years  ago 
it  had  been  deserted,  and  the  inhabitants  had 
come  down  into  a  more  fertile  and  better  wa 
tered  spot,  and  built  their  new  village  there, 
and  the  old  town  had  been  called  Greenmore. 
That  was  more  than  sixty  years  ago.  Max 
visited  the  desolate  spot,  saw  its  few  ruined 
buildings,  the  wooden  walls  black  with  time 
and  wear,  the  windows  gone,  and  came  away 
with  a  strange  wonder  growing  upon  him. 
Where  had  she  heard  the  name  of  this  de 
serted,  dreary,  old-time  place?  Had  she  by 
chance  met  it  in  the  old  book  where  we  first 
came  across  it,  and  which  she  might  have 
taken  from  the  shelf,  where  she  often  han 
dled  the  volumes  ?  Perhaps  so ;  I  cannot  ex 
plain  it  thus.  It  is  only  a  part  of  the  mys- 


32  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

tery  to  me.    It  was  not  meant  for  us  to  under 
stand. 

Another  name  came  several  times  from  her 
lips.  The  first  time  was  when,  as  in  the  case 
I  last  mentioned,  she  was  ill.  She  had  been 
suffering  for  several  days  with  headache,  and 
had  with  it  some  fever  and  restlessness.  It 
was  late  in  November,  and  during  the  night 
a  light  snow  had  fallen,  the  first  snow  of  the 
season.  Max  rose  early,  wishing  to  see  a  pa 
tient  before  breakfast,  and  as  the  office  boy 
had  not  yet  come,  he  went  himself  outside, 
and  wrapped  in  a  rough,  thick  overcoat,  not 
worn  since  the  last  winter,  began  sweeping 
the  snow  from  the  path.  Just  then  Faith  came 
from  her  room,  and  went  to  the  window  of 
the  sitting-room.  She  had  not  known  of  the 
snow,  and  was  all  unprepared  for  the  white 
world  she  saw.  1  was  standing  near  her,  and 
saw  a  curious  look  come  over  her  face.  I  can 
not  say  what  made  it  seem  so  strange,  but  it 
was  as  if  a  little  child  had  waked  in  some 
unfamiliar  spot,  and  was  half  frightened,  half 
pleased.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  Max  at  his 
work,  and  a  cry — I  shall  never  forget  it;  it 


HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  33 

was  made  up  of  rapture,  wonder,  fear — came 
from  her  parted  lips:  "It's  John!"  I  caught 
her  in  my  arms,  and  in  an  instant — oh,  I  can 
not  tell  you  how  quickly,  how  suddenly — that 
strangely  mingled  look  fell  away  from  her  like 
a  mask,  and  her  face,  a  little  pale  and  wistful, 
but  my  own  little  girl's  face  again,  looked  up 
at  me,  as  she  said,  "Oh,  Ruth,  for  a  minute 
I  did  not  know  Max;  I  think  the  snow  daz 
zled  my  eyes."  And  she  was  her  own  happy, 
sweet  self  again. 

In  the  sitting-room  of  our  new  home  there 
was  an  open  fireplace,  but  it  was  closed  by  a 
fire-board  such  as  those  in  use  at  that  time, 
and  as  the  weather  was  still  warm  when  we 
moved  into  the  house,  we  had  never  had  a 
fire  made  there.  One  chilly  day  in  late  Oc 
tober,  when  Max  had  gone  to  see  a  patient 
some  miles  away,  I  thought  I  would  give  him 
a  pleasant  greeting  when  he  returned  from  his 
cold  ride  by  lighting  a  cheery  wood  fire.  It 
was  soon  done,  with  the  help  of  my  little 
maid.  I  had  a  pair  of  tall  brass  andirons  which 
had  belonged  to  my  mother,  and  they  had 
been  carefully  packed  and  brought  with  us 
3 


34  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

from  Sudbury.  These  were  set  in  place,  the 
hickory  logs  piled  on,  the  kindling  laid  under 
neath  and  lighted,  and  soon  my  fire  was  blaz 
ing  and  roaring  and  sending  up  showers  of 
sparks.  I  sat  down  before  it  in  the  large  high- 
backed  chair  which  had  been  my  father's,  and 
so  fell  to  dreaming,  as  one  does  in  the  fire 
light.  The  time  slipped  away,  and  the  room 
grew  dark,  save  where  the  light  of  my  cheer 
ful  fire  fell.  Suddenly  1  heard  a  quick,  light 
step,  the  door  opened,  and  Faith  came  in.  My 
back  was  towards  the  door,  and  before  I  could 
turn  or  speak,  she  called  in  her  clear,  sweet 
voice,  "  Grandfather,  are  you  there  ?" 

I  was  silent,  being  rather  startled,  and  she 
came  slowly  across  the  room  feeling  her  way 
in  the  darkness  by  chairs  and  table,  and  as  she 
came  she  said  again,  more  softly,  as  though 
afraid  of  waking  some  one:  "Grandfather,  is 
it  you  ?  Are  you  asleep  ?" 

Then  I  turned,  and  speaking  very  quietly 
and  naturally,  said:  "It's  I,  Faith;  come  and 
see  my  very  pleasant  fire." 

She  was  at  my  side  in  an  instant,  stooping 
down  and  looking  curiously  into  my  face,  a 


HOW   FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  35 

frightened  look  in  her  eyes.  I  laid  my  hand 
on  hers  and  said:  "You  did  not  expect  to 
see  the  fire,  did  you  ?  And  the  lamps  are  not 
lighted,  so  you  could  hardly  see  me." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said;  "that  is  the  reason. 
I  am  confused — it  is  all  so  strange.  I  thought 
— I  cannot  remember  what  I  thought ;  but  it 
is  all  right  now,  and  you  are  here,  my  dear 
quiet  Ruth." 

At  another  time,  our  little  servant  being  ab 
sent,  I  asked  Faith  to  go  down  to  the  kitchen 
pantry  for  something  I  needed.  She  did  not 
return,  and  after  waiting  some  minutes  I  went 
down  after  her.  I  found  her  standing  in  the 
pantry  before  a  large  basket  of  winter  apples 
which  had  just  been  sent  home  from  the  mar 
ket,  the  first  we  had  seen.  They  were  of  dif 
ferent  sorts,  and  made  a  pretty  picture  with 
their  red,  yellow,  green,  and  russet  tints;  so 
I  did  not  wonder  the  child  was  attracted  by 
them.  But  as  I  came  in  she  said,  without 
looking  up:  "  Isn't  it  too  bad  ?  There  are  no 
Dennison  reddings  here,  and  John  does  not  care 
much  for  any  other  apples.  May  I  go  and  see 
if  there  are  any  left  on  the  tree  by  the  well  ?" 


^  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

How  strange  it  sounded !  Of  course  there 
was  no  well  in  our  little  town  garden,  and  I 
had  never  before  heard  of  a  Dennison  redding 
apple;  and  oh,  who,  who  was  John  ? 

One  day  Max  brought  home  with  him  from 
the  hospital  a  little  boy  that  had  been  brought 
to  the  city  for  medical  treatment,  from  the 
country,  some  miles  away.  His  father  was  a 
farmer,  and  the  boy  was  quite  unused  to  city 
sights  and  sounds,  and  very  homesick.  So 
Max  with  his  kindly  heart  brought  him  to  us 
for  comfort. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  him  Faith  seemed 
strangely  drawn  towards  him.  She  did  not 
make  many  close  friends  outside  our  home, 
but  she  took  the  little  lonesome  boy  at  once 
into  her  heart.  Every  day  she  went  to  the 
hospital  and  brought  him  home  to  spend  hours 
with  us,  and  she  was  never  so  happy  as  when 
playing  with  or  talking  to  her  little  friend. 
His  name  was  Robert,  but  she  always  called 
him  David,  though  he  strongly  objected  to  the 
name. 

"What  do  you  call  me  that  for ?"  he  asked, 
in  blunt  boyish  fashion. 


HOW   FAITH  CAME  AND  WENT.  yj 

"Because  you  look  like  David,"  she  an 
swered,  "and  I  sometimes  think  that  you  are 
really  he." 

I  suppose  she  was  thinking  of  the  boy  Da 
vid  in  the  Bible,  "  ruddy  and  of  a  fair  counte 
nance,"  for  his  cheeks  were  like  red  apples, 
his  eyes  blue,  his  hair  like  flax.  Such  long, 
long  talks  as  they  had  !  He  was  about  ten 
years  old,  and  a  real  country  boy — plain,  prac 
tical,  sometimes  acting  a  little  rough,  though 
good-hearted  and  kindly.  It  was  odd  to  see 
them  together,  so  strongly  unlike,  she  in  her 
pretty  daintiness,  with  soft,  loving  little  ways 
of  her  own,  and  he  a  farmer's  boy,  in  his 
coarse,  ill-fitting  clothes,  with  blunt  speech 
and  awkward  manners.  As  they  sat  together 
she  would  put  her  arm  about  him  and  draw 
him  close  to  her,  often  stooping  to  press  a 
kiss  upon  his  yellow  curls.  But  he  would 
push  her  from  him,  with  a  boy's  dislike  to 
such  demonstrations,  and  say,  "Don't  do  that; 
I  hate  it." 

"But  you  used  to  like  it,  David,"  she  would 
say,  gently,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  the  boy  would  answer; 


38  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

"and  my  name  is  Robert.  I  keep  telling  and 
telling  you." 

She  loved  best  to  hear  stories  of  his  life  at 
the  farm  —  the  simple,  easy  life  there,  of  the 
cows  and  sheep,  the  pastures,  the  dairy,  the 
hay -making,  the  corn -planting.  Her  eyes 
would  shine,  her  face  light  up,  as  he  told  the 
tale  in  homely  phrases,  and  she  would  draw 
him  again  to  her  with  an  almost  passionate 
fondness,  and  cry,  "Oh,  David,  was  it  not 
beautiful,  our  life  at  the  farm  ?" 

You  see,  she  thought  to  please  the  boy  by 
playing  that  she  had  been  there  with  him,  and 
remembered  it  all.  But  he  was  too  practical 
for  such  fancies,  and  would  retort: 

"How  do  you  know  what  'twas  like  ?  You 
never  was  there ;  and  I  tell  you  again  my 
name  isn't  David;  it's  Robert." 

And  she  in  her  turn  would  tell  him  stories. 
I  suppose  she  took  them  from  books,  for  sure 
ly  in  such  a  summer -land  as  she  must  have 
come  from  to  us  there  could  have  been  no 
deep  drifts  of  snow,  no  strayed  and  frost-chill 
ed  lambs,  no  ice-ponds  on  which  to  slide  or 
skate,  no  bright  frosty  mornings  with  jingling 


HOW    FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  39 

sleigh-bells  out-doors  and  roaring  wood  fires 
within. 

It  was  a  sad  day  when  the  boy  left  us  for 
his  home.  Faith  clung  to  him  as  if  she  could 
never  let  him  go,  kissing  his  ruddy  cheeks,  his 
flaxen  hair,  his  rough,  red  little  hands. 

"Tell  them — tell  them,"  she  cried  out,  in 
broken,  half-understood  words — "tell  them  — 
tell  John  —  I—  And  her  words  died  away 
in  sobs  and  caresses,  from  which  the  boy,  so 
glad  to  go  to  his  home  and  his  mother,  rough 
ly  broke  away.  She  had  heard  him  talk  so 
much  of  the  farm  and  the  folk  there  that  she 
fancied  now  that  she  knew  and  loved  them  all, 
for  she  was  full  of  her  fancies.  It  was  many 
a  day  before  she  ceased  to  mourn  for  her  lost 
playmate,  and  to  speak  of  "dear  little  David" 
and  "the  farm."  But  time  and  the  near  ap 
proach  of  her  wedding-day  at  last  banish 
ed  her  sorrow,  and  brought  forgetfulness  and 
comfort. 

They  were  to  be  married,  as  I  have  said,  in 
June.  Her  simple  preparations  were  all  made. 
Many  a  happy  hour  she  and  I  had  sat  together 
sewing  on  the  dainty  garments,  talking  of  the 


4O  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

future  and  her  new  life  with  Max.  During 
this  time  I  ventured  sometimes  to  question  her 
of  her  past  life,  but  very  cautiously,  that  she 
might  not  be  startled.  I  asked  her  once  if  she 
remembered  when  she  first  came  to  us,  but 
she  said  she  did  not,  she  was  "so  very  small." 
And  when,  at  another  time,  I  asked  her  when 
she  first  began  to  love  Max,  she  blushed  and 
smiled,  and  answered  that  she  could  scarcely 
place  the  exact  time  she  had  loved  him,  so 
many  years — "since  she  was  a  little  child." 
So  the  days  and  weeks  slipped  by,  and  June 
came  again  with  its  blue  skies  and  flowers. 
It  was  the  day  before  the  wedding,  which  was 
to  be  a  very  quiet  one,  from  the  little  stone 
church  near  us.  Faith  was  like  a  bird  that 
day,  in  and  out  of  the  house  and  garden, 
singing  to  herself,  or  throwing  me  a  light 
word  or  kiss  as  she  came  and  went.  Max 
was  very  busy  paying  his  last  visits  to  patients 
whom  he  must  leave  for  a  fortnight,  for  he 
and  Faith  were  to  have  two  weeks  of  rest  to 
gether  in  the  mountains.  But  when  he  came 
in  for  a  hurried  word  at  intervals  there  was  a 
look  of  such  complete,  such  perfect  content 


HOW    FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  41 

upon  his  face  as  I  had  never  in  all  his  life  seen 
there  before. 

As  the  day  drew  to  a  close  Faith  seemed  a 
little  weary,  and  I  did  not  wonder,  for  she  had 
been  busy  since  sunrise.  As  I  sat  in  the  door 
way  resting  she  came  and  sat  down  by  me, 
and  laid  her  head  in  my  lap.  I  smoothed  back 
the  bright  soft  hair,  and  as  I  touched  her  fore 
head  I  saw  that  it  was  hot,  and  that  her  cheeks 
were  flushed. 

"  You  have  tired  yourself,  my  child,"  I  said, 
"and  Max  will  scold." 

"Max  never  scolds,"  she  said,  softly.  And 
then,  raising  her  head,  she  looked  into  my 
face,  and  spoke  gravely,  and  with  almost  3 
solemn  sweetness  in  her  tone.  "Ruth,  I  do 
not  talk  much  to  you  of  my  love  for  Max,  do 
I  ?  But  I  want  to  tell  you  to-night  that  my 
whole  heart  is  his.  If  I  should  die  before  he 
makes  me  his  wife,  if  he  should  die  before  he 
is  my  husband,  we  should  still  belong  to  each 
other,  and  some  day  God  would  bring  us  to 
gether  again."  I  could  not  speak,  and  seeing 
the  tears  in  my  eyes,  she  dashed  away  some 
bright  drops  from  her  own,  and  rose  hastily. 


42  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

With  a  radiant  smile,  and  the  pretty  pink  flush 
on  her  face  which  had  been  there  since  she 
came  from  her  garden  work,  she  said,  ''It  is 
time  for  Max;  I  am  going  to  meet  him."  She 
ran  down  the  path,  so  fair  and  sweet  in  her 
simple  blue  dress,  her  straw  hat  hanging  on 
her  arm,  and  as  she  passed  into  the  street  she 
said,  looking  back  at  me,  "Good-bye;  I  am 
going  to  meet—John." 

That  name  again  instead  of  Max!  But  the 
child  was  tired  and  nervous,  and  I  would  not 
startle  her  by  showing  that  she  had  spoken  the 
wrong  name.  So  I  said  nothing  but  "Good 
bye,  my  darling."  I  rarely  used  pet  names  like 
that;  it  was  not  in  my  quiet,  old-fashioned 
way.  I  am  glad  I  said  it  then.  And  so  she 
went  down  the  dusty  street  through  the  sun 
light  towards  the  west,  and  into  the  misty 
glow,  till  I  lost  sight  of  her  in  the  distance. 

I  never  saw  her  again ! 

Few  words  are  best.  All  that  I  could  speak 
would  tell  you  no  better  what  came  after 
wards.  The  first  anxious  doubt,  the  lingering 
suspense,  the  sickening  dread,  the  seeking,  the 
weary,  weary  watching  for  one  who  never 


HOW    FAITH   CAME   AND   WENT.  4^ 

came,  I  cannot  tell  of  it.  As  vainly  as  a  year 
before  we  sought  one  ray  of  light  from  the  un 
known  world  she  had  left  in  coming  to  us,  so 
all  in  vain  we  looked  now  for  one  glimpse  of 
the  life  into  which  she  had  gone  from  us.  I 
will  not  tell  you  one  word  of  Max  and  his  sor 
row.  You  have  no  right  to  ask  it,  or  even  to 
guess  at  that  grief  with  which  a  stranger  in- 
termeddleth  not.  I  have  told  you  how  the 
child  came,  and  how  she  went  away ;  there  is 
nothing  more.  Two  years  later  I  met  one  day 
a  lady  whom  I  had  known  slightly  during  the 
year  the  child  was  with  us,  and  who  knew 
nothing  of  her  sudden  going. 

"  So  your  pretty  young  cousin  has  left  you," 
she  said.  "  I  have  always  remembered  her  so 
well  since  I  met  her  here:  Faith,  I  think  you 
called  her.  So  I  knew  her  at  once  when  I 
saw  her  again,  though  I  caught  such  a  hur 
ried  glimpse  of  her.  I  was  in  the  cars,  and 
the  train  stopped  a  minute  before  crossing  a 
bridge,  and  just  there,  opposite  my  window, 
was  your  little  cousin.  She  had  run  out  from 
the  prettiest  old  farm-house — her  home,  I  sup 
pose — and  was  calling  to  some  one  whom  I 


44  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

did  not  see.  'John!  John!'  she  said,  in  that 
clear,  pleasant  voice  of  hers.  I  heard  it  as 
plainly  as  you  hear  me  now ;  but  before  f 
could  open  my  window  or  speak  to  her  the 
cars  went  on."  Another  clew,  another  vain 
hope  !  The  lady  could  not  remember  just 
where  this  occurred,  but  she  told  us  all  she 
could  recall,  and  search  again  began.  But  in 
vain,  of  course,  as  I  felt  sure  it  would  be.  It 
was  merely  a  fancied  resemblance ;  and  John 
is  such  a  common  name! 

The  learned  doctor  who  had  been  always 
so  interested  in  "the  case,"  as  he  called  our 
Faith  and  her  story,  talked  wisely  of  it  all. 
But  I  paid  little  attention  to  what  he  said,  for 
I  knew  it  was  not  true. 

God  sent  her  new  and  fresh  to  earth  that 
day  from  some  land  where  she  had  always 
dreamed  of  us,  and  where  in  some  mysterious 
way,  in  some  vision  if  not  in  reality,  she  had 
seen  and  loved  and  promised  herself  to  Max. 
God  took  her  away  again.  I  do  not  try  to 
guess  why.  But  some  day,  through  a  misty 
glow,  in  a  land  where  it  is  always  summer, 
I  shall  see  her  coming  down  the  golden  street 


HOW   FAITH  CAME   AND  WENT.  45 

towards  me,  her  soft  brown  eyes  looking  wist 
fully  at  me,  her  bright  hair  loose  upon  her  fore 
head,  her  small,  pretty  hands  reaching  out  to 
wards  me,  and  she  will  say  again,  as  at  first 
she  said  it:  "You  are  waiting  for  me.  Oh, 
I  am  so  glad  to  be  at  home!" 


II. 

BOTANY  BAY. 

'  I  was  his  soul;  he  lived  not  but  in  me. 
We  -were  so  close  -within  each  other  s  breast. 
The  rivets  were  not  found  that  joined  us  first. 

We  were  so  mixed 

As  meeting  streams  ;  both  to  ourselves  were  lost. 
We  were  one  man ;  we  could  not  give  or  take 
But  from  the  same;  for  he  was  I,  I  he." 

Dryden 


BOTANY  BAY. 

His  name  was  Balaam  Montmorency.  How 
its  two  incongruous  parts  came  together,  who 
gave  him  this  name,  with  its  union  of  the  bib 
lical  and  romantic,  I  never  knew,  and  I  think 
nobody  in  Stonington  knew  any  more  than  I 
did.  In  fact,  few,  even  in  the  village  itself, 
had  ever  heard  the  whole  of  his  name.  He 
was  generally  called  "old  Balaam"  or  "old 
Bay,"  until  some  village  wag  hit  upon  the 
title — whose  fitness  you  will  recognize  as  my 
story  goes  on  —  Botany  Bay,  and  so  he  was 
called  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

I  cannot  remember  when  I  first  saw  him,  for, 
from  my  earliest  childhood,  he  was  a  familiar 
and  well-known  object.  So  short  of  stature 
as  almost  to  deserve  the  name  of  dwarf,  with 
a  shock  head  of  tangled  yellow  hair,  bleached 
almost  white  by  the  sun,  a  thin  brown  face, 
and  the  big  blue  eyes  of  a  child,  who  that 
ever  saw  him  can  forget  poor  Botany  Bay? 
4 


5O  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

His  business  was  one  well  known  and  much 
followed  in  former  times,  but  now  unknown 
save  in  the  most  primitive  and  rural  of  com 
munities:  he  was  a  gatherer  and  vender  of 
roots  and  herbs.  Day  after  day,  year  by  year, 
he  roamed  through  wood  and  swamp,  by 
stream  and  highway,  over  plain  and  hill-side, 
in  search  of  treasure.  With  bag  on  back,  and 
basket  in  each  hand,  he  came  every  day  into 
the  village  from  his  rambles,  bringing  the 
sweetness,  the  spiciness,  the  tastes  and  smells 
and  greenness  of  the  forest  with  him.  Birch, 
sassafras,  and  winter-green  for  the  home-made 
root  beer;  pennyroyal  and  mint  to  "take  to 
meetin'";  sweet- clover  to  lay  in  the  linen- 
chest,  or  among  the  handkerchiefs  in  the  bu 
reau  drawer;  boneset,  prince's  pine,  hardhack, 
yarrow,  "injun  posy,"  peppermint,  skull-cap, 
pokeroot,  dock,  snakeroot,  wild-cherry,  gold 
thread,  and  bloodroot,  for  medicines  ;  dande 
lions  and  cowslips  for  "greens";  pigeon-ber 
ries  for  red  ink ;  bayberries  for  candles — all 
these  were  among  his  stores.  He  brought,  too, 
wild  plants  to  make  beautiful  the  village  gar 
dens,  the  sweetbrier  with  its  fragrant  leaves 


BOTANY   BAY.  5 I 

and  pink  blossoms,  the  woodbine  to  trail  over 
fence  and  wall,  or  cover  the  porch  with  its 
five -fingered  leaves,  so  green  in  summer,  so 
brightly  crimson  in  autumn ;  the  swamp  hon 
eysuckle,  with  its  sticky  flowers  of  pink  or 
white,  yellow  and  red  lilies  for  the  garden 
borders,  blueflags,  and  vivid  cardinal -flower. 
From  his  basket  came  the  small,  sweet  huckle 
berries  of  the  early  season,  the  later  and  larger 
blueberries  with  their  whitey  bloom,  the  low 
and  high  blackberry,  and  wild  raspberries,  both 
black  and  red.  No  strawberries  now,  from 
garden  or  hot -bed,  have  the  wild  flavor  of 
those  small  cone-shaped  ones  which  old  Bay 
brought  us  in  early  summer;  even  the  puckery 
choke -cherries  were  pleasant  to  our  young 
palates — and  oh,  how  nice  were  the  spicy 
checkerberries,  the  aromatic  sassafras,  sweet 
birch,  and  sarsaparilla,  the  wild  plums,  purple 
and  yellow,  the  fox  and  frost  grapes ! 

And  how  much  he  knew  of  these  children 
of  the  wildwood  !  He  could  tell  you  of  their 
haunts,  their  seasons,  their  habits,  their  virt 
ues.  He  knew  them,  not  only  when  in  full 
bloom  or  mature  fruit  they  were  most  easily 


52  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

recognized,  but  in  earliest  babyhood,  when 
first  their  tender  shoots  of  pale  pink  or  delicate 
green  pierced  the  cold  ground,  or  in  old  age, 
when  the  dry  and  empty  fruit  swung  on  the 
leafless  stems,  and  when  even  dry  fruit  and 
bare  stalks  were  gone  he  found  his  friends  un 
derground  by  root  or  bulb,  and  knew  them  in 
their  graves. 

I  have  said  that  I  cannot  remember  my  first 
sight  of  old  Balaam,  still  less  can  I  recollect 
how  from  acquaintances  we  became  friends. 
I  have  always  from  boyhood  loved  the  woods 
and  what  grows  in  them,  but  whether  this 
love  drew  Bay  and  me  together,  or  whether 
his  companionship  first  gave  me  that  taste 
for  the  wildwood,  I  do  not  know ;  but  friends 
we  always  were.  Bay  was  not  fond  of  the 
village  boys  generally,  and  "  small  blame  to 
him,"  as  the  Irish  say.  The  youngsters  teased 
him  unmercifully,  stole  his  roots  and  herbs, 
called  him  names,  played  him  tricks,  and  were 
generally  nuisances  to  the  poor  man.  So  he 
avoided  them,  never  sought  their  companion- 
ship,  carefully  concealed  from  them  the  local 
ity  of  his  rarest  plants,  and  was  obstinately 


BOTANY   BAY.  53 

silent  when  questioned  as  to  where  and  how 
he  found  them.  So  I  considered  myself  very 
fortunate  to  be  in  the  old  man's  good  graces, 
and  to  be  allowed,  as  I  was,  day  after  day,  to 
accompany  him  in  his  rambles,  and  I  grew  to 
know,  better  than  most  boys,  the  woods  and 
swamps  around  our  village,  and  what  they 
held.  As  I  look  back  now  I  can  see  myself, 
a  small,  flaxen -haired  boy,  with  "cheek  of 
tan,"  trotting  along  by  my  queer  little  old 
friend,  and  listening  eagerly  to  his  quaint  talk. 
Off  the  East  Road,  out  to  the  Devil's  Den, 
along  Anguilla  Brook,  towards  Mystic,  through 
Flanders,  to  Lantern  Hill,  to  Quiambaug  Cove 
— all  these  ways  we  took,  often  walking  the 
whole  distance  of  many  miles,  but  sometimes 
having  a  lift  from  a  friendly  farmer,  on  hay- 
cart  or  wagon.  Some  of  the  flowers  we  found 
in  these  rambles  I  have  never  since  seen,  oth 
ers  I  have  encountered  in  far  northern  or  ex 
treme  southern  parts  of  our  country,  and  greet 
ed  with  a  strange  thrill  of  memory  as  I  thought 
of  my  boyhood  and  poor  Botany  Bay.  I  well 
remember  as  a  red-letter  day  the  July  morning 
when  we  first  found  on  Lantern  Hill  the 


54  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

rhododendron,  with    its   thick,  glossy,  green 
leaves  and  flowers  of  pale  rose.     Bay  called  it 
"big  laurel,"  and  told  me  of  some  far-away 
mountain  country — very  vaguely  described — 
where  he  had  seen  this  beautiful  shrub  grow 
ing  in   great  profusion,  "close  together,  an' 
taller'n  a  man."     He  carefully  separated  the 
petals — for  he  was  very  tender  always  with 
his  flowers  —  and  showed  me  that  the  throat, 
or  "swaller,"  as  he  called  it,  was  greenish, 
and  spotted  with  red ;  and  he  enjoined  secrecy 
as  to  the  discovery,  as  there  were  but  few 
plants  there,  and  "some  pesky  woman  might 
want  to   dig  'em   up  for  her  posy-gardin." 
And  with  what  wonder  and  admiration  I  first 
gazed  upon  the  pink  lady's-slipper  found  in  a 
dry  wood  near  Westerly  !     It  seemed  to  me 
such  an  odd  flower,  with  its  rosy  pouch  or 
bag,  and  I  was  pleased  with  Bay's  name  for 
it  of  whippoorwill's  shoes.     He  gathered  the 
whole  plant,  giving  me  the  flower  on  its  slen 
der  stalk,  but  keeping  the  fibrous  root  among 
his  choicest  treasures  as  "good  for  narves  and 
high  strikes." 
What  had  he  among  his  herbs  which  was 


BOTANY    BAY.  55 

not  "good  for  "  some  ailment  or  other  ?  And 
what  wonderful  tales  he  could  tell  of  his  mar 
vellous  cures !  I  remember  many  of  these  sto 
ries  still;  and  so,  as  I  go  through  the  country, 
I  find  my  botanical  knowledge  strongly  min 
gled  with  reminiscences  of  the  henbane  and 
plantain  poultice  that  cured  Enoch  Wilcox  and 
"  kep'  off  lockjaw  when  the  crab  bit  his  toe;" 
of  the  dandelion -tea,  so  beneficial  for  "old 
Mis'  Dewey's  janders,"and  the  Indian  turnip, 
which,  boiled  in  milk  and  "took  fastin'," 
soothed  Mary  Bright's  "creakin' cough." 

As  I  do  not  remember  when  I  first  saw  Bot 
any  Bay,  so  I  cannot  recall  at  what  stage  of 
our  comradeship  I  began  to  define  in  my  own 
young  mind  what  made  him  so  different  from 
other  people.  He  was  generally  regarded  as 
insane,  alluded  to  as  "crazy  Balaam,"  avoided 
and  feared  by  children  as  a  dangerous  luna 
tic.  But  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  not  like 
other  madmen.  There  was  "wild  Jimmy," 
the  Scotchman,  kept  by  his  kinsfolk  in  an  at 
tic-room  in  the  small  brown  house  near  Wind 
mill  Point,  and  whose  ravings,  yells,  and  un 
earthly  peals  of  laughter  rang  out  on  moonlight 


56  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

nights,  striking  terror  to  my  soul.  There  was 
Vashti,  with  her  tall,  commanding  figure,  flash 
ing  black  eyes,  and  fine  features,  her  shrewd, 
scarcely  incoherent  talk,  full  of  humorous  in 
congruities.  And  every  one  in  the  village 
knew  Zaccheus,  that  harmless  eccentric,  with 
his  unkempt  hair  and  strangely  patched,  party- 
colored  garments,  who  muttered  to  himself  as 
he  carried  his  baskets  and  brooms  through  the 
streets,  or  stood  in  the  door  of  his  caboose- 
house  in  the  evening.  Botany  Bay  was  not 
at  all  like  these.  He  was  taciturn,  reticent ; 
but  when  he  talked  of  his  plants  there  was  no 
sign  of  insanity,  no  incoherency  or  wandering. 
I  do  not  think  he  could  read  or  write;  he  knew 
nothing  of  any  botanical  systems  or  artifi 
cial  classifying  of  plants,  but  he  had  a  sort  of 
system  of  his  own,  and  by  some  curious  in 
stinct  seemed  to  recognize  kinship  between 
certain  herbs,  which  in  later  years  I  found 
were  placed  in  one  family  by  more  scientific 
men — not  closer  observers. 

Yet  there  was  something  wrong  in  Bay's 
brain.  My  childish  mind  was  conscious  of  it 
but  could  not  define  it.  There  was  a  strange 


BOTANY   BAY.  57 

minor  key  in  all  his  tones,  a  certain  sadness 
underlying  his  happiest  moods.  When  exult 
ant  over  a  new  discovery,  a  long-sought  flow 
er,  a  deep -buried  root  of  wondrous  virtues, 
his  child -smile  of  big -eyed  delight  would 
suddenly,  swiftly  fade,  and  a  strange,  mingled 
look  of  perplexity,  fear,  and  melancholy  take 
its  place.  By -and -by  I  went  further  in  my 
analysis,  and  noticed  what  made  his  talk  so 
odd  and  puzzling.  This  was  the  frequent 
recurrence  of  such  expressions  as  "t'other," 
"him,"  "that  un,"  and  like  phrases,  not  ap 
parently  referring  to  anything  else  in  his  sen 
tences,  or  to  any  one  I  knew. 

"I'm  awful  glad  to  git  this  wild -ginger," 
he  would  say,  as  he  dug  up  the  aromatic  root 
of  the  asarum,  with  its  singular  wine-colored 
flowers  almost  hidden  under  the  earth;  "old 
Square  Wheeler's  tryin'  to  swear  off  chewin'. 
It  gives  him  spells  now,  an'  he's  had  warnin's 
o'  numb  palsy.  But  he  can't  swear  off  on 
anything  but  wild -ginger  root.  He's  tried 
cammermile  an'  rheubarb  an'  lots  o'  things, 
but  he  goes  on  hankerin'  for  terbacky.  I'm 
plaguy  glad  to  git  this"  —  all  this  with  a 


58  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

smile,  or  rather  chuckle,  of  pleasure.  Then  a 
shadow  would  fall  on  the  thin,  wizened,  brown 
face,  and  in  a  lower  tone,  with  a  kind  of  pa 
thetic  ring  in  it,  he  would  say,  "I  wonder  if 
he's  found  it  this  year,  hope  he  has,"  and  with 
a  heavy  sigh  the  spicy  treasure,  but  with  half 
its  flavor  gone,  seemingly,  for  Bay,  would  be 
dropped  into  the  basket.  Or  while  cutting,  in 
autumn,  the  witch-hazel  twigs  with  their  late, 
out -of- season,  unflowerlike  yellow  blossoms, 
he  would  murmur:  "  I'd  be  sot  up  with  gettin' 
these,  to  steep  for  Lodowick  Pen'leton's  lame 
arm,  if  't  wa'n't  for  t'other.  I'm  awfully  'fraid 
he  ain't  got  any  this  fall."  That  I  did  not,  for  a 
long  time,  ask  the  meaning  of  these  references 
shows  me  now  that  I  recognized  in  them  an 
element  of  mystery,  something  out  of  the  com 
mon,  which  somehow  awed  and  silenced  me. 
I  remember  well  the  day  when  the  explana 
tion  came.  We  had  been  roaming  about  the 
lower  part  of  the  village,  gathering  jimson- 
weed,  the  stramonium  of  botany  and  pharma 
cy.  It  grew  very  plentifully  in  waste  places 
there,  with  its  large  whitish  or  pale  violet 
funnel-shaped  flowers  and  coarse  leaves,  and 


BOTANY    BAY.  59 

we  soon  had  all  we  wanted.  As  the  summer 
twilight  came  on  we  wandered  down  to  the 
Point,  near  the  old  light-house,  and  finally  seat 
ed  ourselves  on  the  rocks  there,  and  looked 
out  over  the  water.  There  had  been  one  of 
those  wonderful  sunsets  of  crimson  and  gold 
so  well  known  to  old  Stonington,  and  believed 
by  her  inhabitants  to  be  quite  unknown  else 
where  (old  Captain  Seth  used  to  tell  me  it 
was  "  owin'  to  the  salt  in  the  air,  which  kind 
er  fetched  the  colors  out  an' sot  'em").  A  lit 
tle  sail-boat  in  the  distance — a  homely  thing 
enough  when  at  the  dock,  and  with  the  broad 
unfaltering  light  of  noonday  upon  its  scarred 
and  dingy  sides,  stained  and  patched  sail — 
now  seemed  a  fairy  shallop  of  rose  and  gold, 
and  on  this  boat  Botany  Bay's  blue,  melan 
choly  eyes  were  fixed.  "He  might  be  in  that 
boat,"  he  said  at  last,  "might  jest  as  well  be 
there's  anywheres;  jest's  likely  to  be,  fortino;" 
and  then  as  I  looked  up  at  the  dreary  sound 
in  his  voice  I  saw,  to  my  amaze  and  distress, 
big  tears  on  the  brown  face.  I  could  not  stand 
that.  I  laid  my  fingers  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
ragged  coat,  and  whispered : 


60  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

11  What's  the  matter,  Bay  ?"  I  think  he  was 
glad  to  have  me  ask  him.  I  think  he  had 
pined  for  a  confidant;  at  any  rate  he  turned 
quickly  towards  me,  and  in  a  strangely  sol 
emn,  sad  voice,  the  very  tones  of  which  I  seem 
to  hear  as  I  recall  the  scene,  he  said : 

"Aleck,  did  ye  know  there  was  two  o'  me  ?" 

I  scarcely  understand  now  what  there  was 
in  those  words  to  frighten  me  so.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  speaker, 
our  surroundings  of  sea  and  sky,  as  well  as 
the  mysteriousness  of  the  words  themselves, 
which  alarmed  me,  only  a  boy  at  the  time ; 
but  I  shivered  with  sudden  fear. 

"  Don't  be  scaret,  Aleck,"  he  said,  soothing 
ly.  'Tain't  nothin'  new.  I've  knowed  it  years. 
Ye  ain't  scaret  at  me;  an'  he's  jest  the  same." 

"Who  is,  Bay?"  I  said,  in  a  frightened 
whisper,  my  teeth  almost  chattering. 

' '  Him, "  he  answered,  slowly, ' '  t'other.  That 
other  me,  ye  know;"  and  gradually  the  story 
was  told. 

Many  years  before,  how  long  Bay  did  not 
know,  a  sailor,  temporarily  in  Stonington, 
while  his  ship  was  unloading,  had  told  the 


BOTANY    BAY.  6 1 

simple  herbalist  a  strange  thing.  He  had  said 
that  somewhere  far  away  there  was  another 
Botany  Bay,  another  Balaam,  in  every  respect 
the  same  as  this  one.  His  name,  his  looks,  his 
pursuit,  were  all  just  the  same.  This  is  what 
Bay  understood  him  to  say.  Whether  the  man 
was  trying  to  impose  upon  the  poor  boy's  cre 
dulity,  whether  in  his  broken  tongue — for  he 
was  a  foreigner — he  only  intended  to  say  that 
he  had  seen  a  person  who  resembled  the  plant- 
vender,  or  again,  if  perchance  he  was  super- 
stitiously  inclined  and  himself  believed  in  this 
strange  double,  I  know  not.  At  any  rate,  Bay 
accepted  the  tale  as  true,  and  it  colored  all  his 
after-life.  If  he  was  happy  and  exultant  over 
some  simple  conquest  in  the  plant  world,  his 
joy  was  at  once  shadowed  by  the  thought  that 
" t'other"  was,  perhaps,  denied  that  pleasure. 
If  troubled,  if  cold  or  hungry,  or  persecuted  by 
the  boys,  he  was  jealous  lest  " t'other"  was 
better  off  and  free  from  these  annoyances.  He 
was  always  brooding  over  the  existence  of 
this  other  self,  sometimes  when  lonesome  re 
joicing  in  the  twinship  which  seemed  to  give 
him  something  all  his  own,  a  more  than  friend 


62  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

or  even  brother,  sometimes  hating  the  thought 
of  this  shadow  of  his  he  could  not  escape,  of- 
tenest  of  all  fearing  with  a  strange  fear  this 
weird,  mysterious  duplicate  of  himself.  After 
my  first  alarm  on  hearing  this  strange  story 
the  terror  subsided,  and  I  began  soothing  and 
comforting  my  poor  friend. 

"I  don't  see  what  makes  you  so  afraid, 
Bay,"  I  said,  as  we  still  sat  on  the  rocks  and 
talked  that  night.  "What  is  there  so  dread 
ful  in  a  man's  looking  just  like  you  ?" 

"Tain't  that,  Aleck,"  he  replied.  "Tain't 
jest  that  he  favors  me,  but  he  is  me,  an'  I'm 
him,  an'  we're  both  on  us  each  other.  It's 
dreffle,  dreffle." 

"But  how  can  it  be,  Bay?  How  could  it 
have  happened  ?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  use  to  know  'bout  that  my 
self.  But  I've  ciphered  it  out  now,  an'  this's 
the  way  on  it.  I  see  Cap'n  Pollard's  little  gal 
one  day,  Lois,  you  know,  settin'  on  the  stoop, 
cuttin'  out  figgers  out  o'  paper  with  her  ma's 
scissors,  an'  she  went  to  cut  out  a  man  with  a 
peaked  hat  on,  an'  all  of  a  suddent  she  says : 
*  Why,  look  here,  I  got  two  on  'em  'stead  o' 


BOTANY   BAY.  63 

one.'  An'  I  see  she'd  doubled  her  paper  'thout 
knowin'  it,  an'  so  she'd  got  two  men  jest  ke- 
zackly  alike,  peaked  hat  an'  all.  An'  then  in  a 
jiffy  it  come  over  me  that  was  how  it  hap 
pened  with  him  an'  me;  God  got  the  stuff 
doubled,  you  see,  an'  when  he  went  to  cut  me 
out — or  him,  whichever  'twas  he  meant  to 
make — he  made  two  on  us.  I  guess  he  didn't 
find  it  out  till  'twas  too  late,  or  he  wouldn't  ha' 
let  it  go.  Or  mebbe  he  thought  he'd  throwed 
one  away,  but  it — I  mean  him — or  me — got 
off  somehow.  But  'twas  a  dreffle  mistake,  an' 
can't  never,  never  be  sot  right." 

His  voice  had  a  hopeless  ring  in  it,  and  his 
blue  eyes  were  misty  as  he  looked  off  to  sea. 
It  was  growing  dark,  and  one  by  one  the 
lights  came  out  on  Fisher's  Island,  Montauk 
Point,  and  farther  to  the  westward,  on  the 
Hummocks. 

"  How  could  it  be  sot  right  ?"  he  went  on. 
"  Mebbe  you  think  if  one  on  us  died,  'twould 
fix  it.  But  about  his  soul,  how's  that  ?  When 
we  was  made  double  —  by  mistake— nobody 
to  blame,  you  know — there  couldn't  ha' been 
but  one  soul  pervided  for.  I  was  raised  re- 


64  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

spectable  on  'lection  an'  foreordination,  jest's 
you  was,  Aleck,  an'  so  I  know  that  air  soul 
was  'lected  to  heaven  or  'tother  place,  an' 
whichever  died  fust  would  take  that  place  per- 
vided  for  Balaam  Montm'rency's  soul.  Ther' 
couldn't  be  two  men  'lected  guv'nor  o'  Con 
necticut,  could  ther'  ?  No  more  could  ther' 
be  two  souls  to  the  same  man  'lected  to  one 
place." 

"Oh,  Balaam!"  I  cried,  in  dismay;  "I  can't 
follow  you;  I'm  all  mixed  up." 

"So'm  I,  Aleck,  an'  so's  him,  dreffle  mixed; 
that's  the  trouble." 

From  that  night  Bay  and  I  were  closer  friends 
than  ever.  I  knew  his  secret  now,  and  he  was 
glad  I  knew  it.  We  often  talked  of  "  t'other," 
and  passed  hours  in  vain  surmises  and  imag 
inings  as  to  his  fate.  Although  I  knew  the 
whole  situation  was  impossible,  and  existed 
only  in  poor  Bay's  weak  brain,  still  there  was 
a  fearful  fascination  for  me  in  the  subject,  and 
I  loved  to  dwell  upon  it. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  him,  Balaam?"  I 
asked  one  day. 

Bay  shook  and  brushed  the  earth  from  some 


BOTANY   BAY.  65 

fine  large  roots  of  the  ginseng  he  had  just 
been  digging,  as  he  said,  doubtfully,  "I  don't 
hardly  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I  would,  an' 
then  agin  I  ain't  so  sure.  To  see  yourself 
comin'  up  to  ye  jest  careless  like,  's  if  'twas 
somebody  else,  would  be  pretty  scary,  out  of 
a  lookin'-glass.  But  agin  there's  times  when 
1  want  him  bad;  seem's  if  I  must  have  him; 
's  if  I  wasn't  a  hull  man  without  him,  but 
on'y  a  piece  o'  one,  half  a  pair  o'  scissors,  you 
know,  or  one  leg  o' these  trowses." 

"But,  Bay,"  1  said,  with  a  sudden  thought, 
"it  isn't  any  worse  than  twins.  Don't  you 
know  Bill  and  Bob  Hancox  are  twins,  and  they 
look  so  much  alike  nobody  but  their  mother 
knows  them  apart." 

"I've  thought  o'that,"  Bay  replied,  "but  it 
ain't  the  same.  They  was  meant  to  be  in 
pairs,  like  pijin  berries,  or  two-fingered  grass. 
They've  got  two  souls,  an'  there's  a  place  for 
'em  both — one  for  Bob  Hancox  and  one  for 
Bill  Hancox — in  heaven  or  t'other  place;  I'm 
afraid  Bill's  place  is  the  bad  un,  for  he's  a 
plaguey  troublesome  chap  ;  but  us,  we  ain't 
twins,  we're  each  other,  don't  ye  see  ?" 


66  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

I  did  not  see  exactly,  but  that  there  was  a 
difficulty  too  mighty  to  be  explained  away  by 
my  young  self  I  realized  too  well.  One  sum 
mer's  day  we  were  walking  near  the  "Road 
meeting-house. "  Bay  had  been  gathering  Ind 
ian  tobacco,  one  of  the  lobelias,  and  discours 
ing  upon  its  nature  and  properties.  Accord 
ing  to  him,  although  a  powerful  "pison,"yet 
when  steeped  and  combined  with  certain  other 
"yarbs"  it  had  performed  wonderful  cures. 

"There's  'nother  kind,"  he  said,  " somethin' 
like  this,  only  it's  a  good  deal  taller,  an'  's  got 
big  spikes  o'  blooms,  real  blue,  an'  han'some. 
They  call  that  the  High  Beelyer,  'cause  this 
small  little  one's  the  Low  Beelyer,  ye  know,  an' 
it's  good  for  the  blood,  like  sas'p'rilla  an'  dock." 

We  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  church  steps, 
and  were  silent  for  a  time.  Then  Bay  said: 
"I  wish  I  was  a  perfessor;  b'longed  to  the 
Church,  ye  know;  I  might  get  a  sight  o' com 
fort  that  way.  But  I  can't  be,  'tain't  no  use. 
I  come  pretty  near  it  once.  I  was  at  the  Bap 
tist  meetin'  one  Sunday  night,  an'  there  was  a 
big  revival,  an'  Elder  Swan  was  preachin'.  I 
was  awful  stirred  up,  an'  seem'd  's  if  I'd  foun'  a 


BOTANY   BAY.  67 

way  out  o'  all  my  troubles.  But  all  on  a  sud- 
dent  I  thought  o'  'tother  one.  I  mos'  know  he's 
a  heathen,  for  the  man  that  told  me  about  him 
he  was  a  Portugee  or  Kanaka,  an'  mos'  likely 
he'd  seed  t'other  Balaam  over  in  them  parts. 
So  1  jest  thought  'twould  be  pretty  mean  for 
me,  with  my  priv'leges,  born  in  a  Christian 
land  an'  raised  in  Stonin'ton  Borough,  to  take 
advantage  of  t'other  poor  heathen  Bay  just  be 
cause  he'd  happened  to  be  brought  up  'mong 
id'ls  an'  things,  an'  take  his  chance  away.  So 
I  gin' it  up." 

I  cannot  describe  fully  all  the  phases  of  feel 
ing  through  which  Bay  passed  after  I  knew  his 
story.  But  sure  am  I  that  after  doubt,  fear,  re 
pulsion,  dread,  sorrow,  and  pity,  he  came  at 
last  into  a  great  and  tender  love  for  this  strange 
other  self.  I  do  not  think  that  he  had  ever  be 
fore  loved  a  human  being.  As  far  as  I  could 
find  out  he  had  no  memory  of  father,  mother, 
brother,  or  sister,  and  had  hitherto  led  a  friend 
less,  lonesome  life.  So  he  had  learned  no  ex 
pressions  of  endearment,  no  fond  words,  no 
pet  names.  Such  had  never  been  addressed 
to  himself,  nor  had  he  ever  used  them.  But 


68  SEVEN  DREAMERS. 

he  loved,  in  a  certain  fashion,  his  plants,  and 
this  helped  him  now.  He  grew  more  eccen 
tric,  odder  than  ever,  was  more  by  himself, 
and  was  always  talking  in  a  low  tone,  even 
when  quite  alone.  The  village  folk  said  that 
he  was  "  madder' n  a  hatter,"  "  crazier' n  a 
coot, "but  I  did  not  think  so.  He  was  only 
talking  to  his  other  self,  for  I  often  heard  such 
words  as  these : 

"Poor  Bay,  poor  t'other  Bay,  don't  mind 
me,  don't  be  scaret  as  I  uster  be,  'cause  there's 
two  o'  ye.  Some  meddlin'  loon's  up  an'  told 
ye,  I  s'pose,  an' ye  feel  bad;  don't,  now,  don't." 

Then  his  voice  would  sink  almost  to  a  whis 
per  as  he  would  say : 

"  Why,  I  love  ye,  Bay,  I  love  ye;  I  love  your 
peaked,  pindlin'  face,  an' your  yeller  mussed-up 
hair,  an'  them  silly  blue  eyes  o'  yourn.  Ye  see 
I  know  jest  how  ye  look.  I've  got  a  bit  o'  look- 
in'-glass  now,  an'  I  carry  it  'round  an'  keep 
lookin'  in  it,  an'  I  can  see  us  jest  's  plain. 
Don't  be  'feard  on  me ;  I  wouldn't  no  more 
hurt  ye  than  I'd  hurt  the  vilets  or  venuses- 
prides  in  the  spring." 

But  more  and  more,  as  this  strange  love 


BOTANY   BAY.  69 

grew,  did  the  poor  man  grieve — agonize  al 
most —  over  that  other's  soul,  and  its  ultimate 
state.  His  ideas  of  heathendom  were  vague, 
and  derived  principally  from  what  he  had 
heard  at  the  " Monthly  Concerts"  of  the  Bap 
tist  church,  intensified  by  the  pictures  in  il 
lustrated  missionary  papers  distributed  at  the 
same  meetings.  He  sometimes  fancied  that 
"  t'other  Bay"  was  discussing  this  matter  with 
him,  and  I  would  hear  him  say,  as  if  in  re 
sponse  to  another  voice : 

"  Yer  a  heathen,  ye  say  ?  That  ain't  no  mat 
ter.  How  could  ye  help  bein',  out  there  where 
ye  b'long  ?  Never  min',  poor  old  Bay,  /  don't 
care  'bout  yer  id'ls,  an'  yer  throwin'  babies  to 
the  crockerdiles,  an'  layin'  down  on  the  railroad 
track  to  let  the  Jockanock  train  run  over  ye, 
an'  all  that.  I'd  a  done  it,  too,  if  'twas  the 
fash'n  in  the  Borough  here.  That's  what  they 
sing  over  to  Baptist  meetin', 

'"The  heathens  in  their  blinders 
Bows  down  to  wooden  stuns.' 

'Course  they  do ;  they  don't  know  no  better. 
But  then,  Bay,  'tain't  a  good  thing  to  do,  an'  I 
wouldn't  if  I  was  you.  O,  Lord,  I  am  you,  I 


7O  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

clean  forgot.  But  won't  ye  try  not  to  do  it— 
can't  ye  swear  off,  Bay  ?" 

Again  and  again,  as  the  months  rolled  on, 
Balaam  would  talk  with  me  of  this  matter,  al 
ways  dwelling  now  upon  the  point  that  there 
was  but  one  place  "  pervided  for  Balaam  Mont- 
m'rency's  soul,"  and  consequently  but  one  of 
the  two  Bays  could  have  a  place  at  all. 

"But,"  I  ventured  to  ask  one  day,  "what 
becomes  of  the  other  soul,  Bay  ?" 

"Why,  it  jest  goes  out." 

"Out  where ?"  I  naturally  asked. 

"Jest  where  the  light  of  a  taller  can'le  goes 
when  ye  snuff  it  out,  or  the  inside  of  a  puff- 
ball  when  ye  squeeze  it,  that's  where.  There 
ain't  no  soul  no  more;  it's  just  stopped  bein'." 

The  more  the  love  for  "t'other  Bay"  grew 
and  deepened,  the  more  the  trouble  and  per 
plexity  increased.  How  could  he  help  this 
other — how  could  he  set  right  this  mighty 
difficulty  ? 

One  November  day  I  had  arranged  to  meet 
my  friend  just  outside  the  village,  and  go  out 
to  the  Baldwin  Farm  to  dig  gold-thread  roots. 
It  was  late  in  the  season,  but  Uncle  David  Doty 


BOTANY    BAY.  7! 

was  suffering  with  a  sore  mouth,  and  his  sup 
ply  of  gold-thread — a  certain  cure — was  near 
ly  exhausted,  and  Botany  Bay  knew  well  how 
to  find  the  little  plant,  even  when  snow  was 
on  the  ground,  by  its  glossy,  evergreen,  straw 
berry-like  leaf,  which  told  that  under  the  earth 
were  the  bright  yellow  thread-like  roots  of  bit 
ter  virtue.  As  I  came  to  the  place  of  meeting, 
Bay  was  waiting,  and  I  at  once  saw  that  he 
was  strangely  excited.  His  thin  brown  face 
was  pale,  his  big  blue  eyes  wild,  his  lips 
worked  nervously. 

"Aleck,  Aleck,"  he  said,  excitedly,  as  soon 
as  I  drew  near,  "  I've  had  a  message!" 

"  Who  from,  Bay  ?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  from  him,  from  poor  Bay,  dear  old 
Balaam.  I  thought  there  was  suthin'  comin',  an' 
I've  been  thinkin'  an'  contrivin'  what  'twould 
be,  an'  this  mornin'  as  I  was  comin'  down  the 
road  I  see  old  Thankful  Bateese,  the  Injun  wom 
an.  She's  a  mighty  cur'us  creeter,  an'  they  say 
she  has  dealin's,  an'  she  was  in  a  field  all  by 
herself,  an'  she  was  a-walkin'  roun'  an'  roun' 
suthin'  on  the  ground,  an'  kinder  singin'.  An5 
I  lissened,  an' — oh,  Aleck,  I  heerd  the  words.5' 


72  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

He  stopped,  and  caught  his  breath  with  a 
half  sob. 

"What  was  it?"  I  asked,  eagerly,  sharing 
his  excitement. 

Still  pale  and  trembling,  he  began  chanting, 
in  a  strange,  monotonous  way,  these  rude 
rhymes : 

"Ther's  room  for  one,  but  ther'  ain't  for  two, 
Ther's  no  room  for  me  if  ther's  room  for  you ; 
If  ye  wanter  save  me,  jest  up  an'  say 
Ye'll  gimme  your  chance,  an'  get  outer  the  way." 

As  he  crooned  the  words,  swaying  his  body 
and  moving  his  head  from  side  to  side,  I  was 
at  once  reminded  of  the  old  squaw,  so  well 
known  in  the  village,  and  her  peculiar  way  of 
chanting  some  strange  gibberish,  quite  unin 
telligible  to  any  of  us.  It  at  once  struck  me 
that  Bay  had  construed  the  Indian  jargon  in 
his  own  way,  prompted  by  his  one  pervading 
thought. 

"Are  you  sure  she  said  that ?"  I  asked.  " I 
never  could  understand  the  words  of  anything 
she  sings." 

"/never  could  afore,  Aleck,  but  I  heerd  this 


BOTANY    BAY.  73 

jest  as  plain.  Twas  Bay,  t'other  Bay,  speakin' 
right  through  her.  An'  now  I  know  what  I've 
got  ter  do." 

"  Oh,  what,  Bay  ?"  I  asked,  anxiously,  draw 
ing  nearer  to  him. 

"Why,  don't  ye  see?  I've  got  ter  up  an' 
say  I'll  gin  him  my  chance,  an'  git  outer  the 
way,"  and  his  voice  again  fell  into  the  strange 
chant. 

"  But  who'll  you  say  it  to,  Bay  ?" 

His  face  fell,  and  a  puzzled  look  came  over 
it,  as  he  said,  hesitating  and  troubled : 

"Why  —  why — to  him  —  no,  I  can't  reach 
him — oh,  Aleck,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall 
I  do  ?"  and  he  threw  himself  upon  the  ground 
in  an  agony  of  sorrow  and  bewilderment.  At 
that  moment  I  saw  the  old  Indian  woman 
coming  along  the  road,  and  dashed  after  her. 
But  I  failed  utterly  in  making  her  respond 
satisfactorily  to  my  inquiries  as  to  her  song 
and  what  it  meant.  She  threatened  me,  with 
alarming  guttural  sounds  and  wild  gesticula 
tions,  and  I  ran  away  frightened. 

I  returned  to  my  friend,  and  finally  succeeded 
in  persuading  him  to  go  on  with  me  towards 


74  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

the  farm,  after  our  golden  treasure.  We  talked 
long  and  earnestly  as  we  went  on  through 
the  gray  November  day. 

"Ye  see,  Aleck,"  said  Balaam  at  last,  "it 
must  be  my  soul  that's  'lected — I  was  allers 
afraid  'twas — an'  he's  foun'  it  out,  an'  he  sees  a 
way  out  on  it,  if  I  *  wanter  save  him,'  he  says. 
Wanter !  Oh,  Bay !"  and  there  was  such  a 
depth  of  tenderness  in  the  voice.  It  seemed 
as  if  all  the  love  he  might  under  other  condi 
tions  have  given  to  father,  mother,  wife,  or 
child,  had  gone  into  this  one  affection. 

"But,  Bay,"  I  said,  full  of  love  and  pity  for 
my  friend,  "I  don't  want  you  to  give  up  to 
him  this  way.  Why  should  you  ?" 

' '  Why,  Aleck,  I  wanter ;  I'd  love  ter.  I  never 
had  anybody  to  take  keer  on,  or  set  by,  or  gin 
up  ter,  but  him,  an'  I  love  it.  I  don't  guess  he 
sets  so  much  by  me ;  likely's  not  he's  got  folks 
— a  fam'ly,  mebbe — an'  he  wants  me  outer  the 
way,  body  an'  soul,  both  on  'em.  He  don't 
want  me  'roun'  here,  or  takin'  his  place  there, 
an'  I  don't  blame  him  a  mite.  But  it's  differ 
ent  with  me.  He's  all  the  folks  I've  got,  an' 
I'm  dreffle  glad  ter  do  a  little  suthin  for  him. 


BOTANY   BAY.  75 

I  won't  say  that  I  ain't  sometimes  kinder  felt 
's  if  I'd  like  ter  see  them  places  they  tell  about 
at  meetin',  an'  Scripter  speaks  on.  Ye  ain't  a 
religious  boy,  Aleck ;  that  ain't  cum  yit  with 
ye ;  so  I  can't  talk  much  about  that,  an'  tell 
you  all  my  reas'ns,  the  whys  an'  whuffers  ; 
but  anyway  you'll  understand  how  I'd  like  to 
see  them  plants  an'  things  growin'  there  El 
der  Peckham  told  about,  that  heals  the  nations, 
an'  them  trees  bearin'  a  dozen  diffunt  kin's  o' 
fruits — grafted,  mebbe — an'  them  '  never-with- 
erin'  flowers'  in  the  hymn-book — everlastin's 
I  'spose.  But,  law,  'tain't  wuth  talkin'  about. 
I'd  do  more'n  that  for  him,  poor  chap.  Jest 
to  go  out,  you  know,  an'  not  to  be  'roun'  any 
more;  that  ain't  much." 

In  spite  of  myself  I  could  not  help  talking  as 
if  the  situation  was  a  real  one.  I  had  lived  so 
long  with  Bay  in  this  strange  story  of  another 
self  that  it  was  very  real  to  me,  and  I  could 
hardly  bear  the  thought  of  this  terrible  sacri 
fice,  this  strange,  paradoxical,  unselfish  self- 
love,  this  self-abnegatory  immolation  for  an 
other  self.  But  I  could  do  nothing. 

We  had  gathered  our  roots,  and  were  resting 


76  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

under  the  lee  of  a  large  bowlder,  when  again 
Bay  began  his  bewildering  talk  as  to  how  he 
could  effect  this  renunciation,  to  whom  he 
could  "up  an'  say"  that  he  would  gladly  re 
sign  his  chance  for  the  other's  sake.  Sudden 
ly,  as  we  leaned  against  the  rock,  there  came 
from  overhead  something  like  a  cry.  To  this 
day  I  do  not  know  what  it  was.  It  may  have 
been  the  call  of  some  belated  bird  fallen  behind 
his  migrating  comrades,  the  scream  of  an  eagle 
or  hawk,  but  to  Bay's  excited  brain  it  seemed 
a  message  from  Heaven.  He  listened  intent 
ly  a  moment,  his  pale  face  glowed,  and  he 
cried: 

"  O'  course,  o'  course!  I'd  oughter  knowed 
it.  Thank  the  Lord,  I  know  now." 
"  Oh,  Bay,  tell  me,  tell  me,  what  is  it  ?" 
"Why,  that  there  voice  showed  me  how. 
Don't  ye  see  that  wh'ever  made  the  mistake 
fust — made  us  double,  ye  know — he's  the  one 
to  fix  it  now  ?  He'll  be  glad  enough  to  have 
the  thing  sot  right  an'  off  his  mind,  an'  if  I  go 
an'  tell  him  's  well  as  I  know  how  that  I  ain't 
goin'  to  stan'  in  any  one's  way — that  he  can 
count  me  out — why,  the  thing  '11  be  squared 


BOTANY    BAY.  77 

somehow."  He  was  in  a  state  of  trembling 
excitement. 

"Go  home,  Aleck,  that's  a  good  boy,"  he 
said,  hurriedly;  "I  want  ter  be  by  myself  a 
spell ;  I'll  come  down  bimeby." 

He  took  up  his  basket,  crossed  the  road,  en 
tered  a  piece  of  woods,  and  was  soon  out  of 
sight  among  the  leafless  trees.  I  was  fright 
ened,  and  after  a  few  minutes  I  stole  after  him, 
and  went  a  little  way  into  the  woods.  Sud 
denly  I  heard  a  voice,  and  involuntarily  stopped 
to  listen.  I  shall  not  tell  you  what  I  heard.  I 
was  not,  as  Botany  Bay  truly  said,  a  religious 
boy — perhaps  I  am  not  a  religious  man ;  but 
there  was  something  about  what  came  to  my 
ears  in  that  gray  and  lonesome  wood  which 
filled  me  with  awe  then,  and  has  ever  since 
seemed  to  me  a  sacred,  solemn  thing.  He 
was  talking  to  some  one,  as  man  to  man  ;  he 
was  telling  that  some  one  in  homely  phrase, 
which  yet  carried  in  it  a  terrible  earnestness, 
of  his  willingness  to  give  up  his  place  here 
and  hereafter — as  he  had  often  expressed  it  to 
me  to  "stop  bein'" — to  have  everything  go 
on  as  if  there  had  been  but  one  Bay,  and  that 


78  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

one  " t'other."  He  did  not  ask  that  this  might 
be;  he  made  no  petition,  offered  no  plea.  He 
spoke  as  if  only  his  expression  of  willingness 
was  lacking  to  make  the  thing  a  fact,  to  com 
plete  the  sacrifice. 

Boy  as  I  was,  I  felt  that  I  was  on  holy  ground, 
and  stole  away.  I  would  go  home,  I  thought, 
but  to-morrow  I  would,  at  the  risk  of  seeming 
to  betray  a  confidence,  ask  advice  of  some 
older,  wiser  person. 

As  I  came  down  into  the  village  it  grew 
grayer  and  more  black,  and  soon  there  were 
snow-squalls,  a  sure  sign  there  of  increasing 
cold.  And  cold  it  grew,  bitterly  cold.  As  I 
sat  in  front  of  our  blazing  wood  fire  that  even 
ing  I  thought  much  of  Bay,  and  longed  for  the 
morning.  I  should  know  better  what  to  say 
to  him  now  that  I  had  thought  the  matter 
over,  and  if  I  could  not  convince  him  myself, 
why,  I  should  go  to  Mr.  Clifford,  the  minister. 
He  would  know  what  to  say.  The  morning 
came  clear  and  cold,  sharply  cold  for  that  early 
season,  and  thoughts  of  skating  and  'Lihu's 
Pond  came  first  to  me  as  I  woke  in  my  warm 
bed.  Then  I  remembered  Bay.  As  soon  as  I 


BOTANY   BAY.  79 

could  I  ran  up  the  street  and  down  the  little 
lane  opposite  the  doctor's  to  Bay's  small  brown 
house.  He  was  not  there;  the  neighbors  said 
he  had  not  been  there  since  yesterday  morn 
ing.  I  hurried  to  David  Doty's,  down  the 
back  street  towards  the  Point,  but  he  had  not 
brought  to  the  old  man  the  promised  gold 
thread.  Thoroughly  alarmed,  I  ran  home  and 
told  my  fears,  and  soon  our  team  was  ready, 
and  my  father  and  I,  with  faithful  Elam,  our 
"help,"  were  on  our  way  to  the  woods  where 
I  had  last  seen  poor  Bay. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  find  him  ;  he  did  not 
try  to  hide  away.  There  he  was,  lying  close 
at  hand  and  very  still.  At  first  we  thought 
that  he  was  dead.  Then  he  showed  some 
signs  of  life,  and  we  lifted  him  tenderly  and 
carried  him  to  our  home.  No  pains  were 
spared  to  resuscitate  him;  good  Dr.  Hines 
worked  faithfully  and  untiringly,  and  by-and- 
by  the  eyelids  trembled  and  were  lifted. 

There  was  a  look  of  dazed  wonderment  at 
first;  then  a  faint  light  flickered  over  the  small, 
quaint,  brown  face,  and  the  lips  moved.  We 
bent  to  listen.  In  a  faint, broken  whisper  he  said : 


80  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

"Ther's  room  for  one,  but  ther'  ain't  for 
two.  But — ther'  ain't — two  now,  Bay ;  you're 
the — one — an'  I'm  —  goin'  out.  I'm  dreffle 
glad,  Bay." 

The  big  blue  eyes  opened  with  a  sudden 
smile,  like  that  of  a  little  child,  but  withal  so 
wise  and  deep,  and  Bay  was  still.  The  soul 
had  "gone  out."  Had  it  " stopped  bein'  ?" 


III. 

AUNT  RANDY. 

55  Which  things  are  an  allegory." 

Gal.  iv.  24. 


AUNT  RANDY. 

WE  were  on  the  Landaff  Valley  road,  only 
a  mile  or  two  out  from  Franconia  village.  Na 
than  was  driving,  while  Pirate  and  Corsair  (Na 
than  would  always  call  the  latter  Horsehair), 
in  defiance  of  their  reckless  names,  lounged 
lazily  along  the  road.  It  was  June,  and  the 
season  was  a  little  late,  but  along  the  margins 
of  the  streams  the  early  buttercups  were  shin 
ing  all  golden  in  the  sun,  the  tiarella  sent  up 
feathery  spikes  of  white,  and  in  the  woods 
the  painted  trilliums — the  "Benjamins"  of  the 
country-folk  —  were  unfolding  their  delicate 
pink  and  white  flowers.  The  bunchberry 
made  mounds  of  creamy  bloom  at  the  roots  of 
ancient  trees ;  star-flower,  anemones  and  gold 
thread,  starred  the  woods ;  and  in  the  swamps 
tooth  wort,  marsh -marigold,  and  purple  avens 
were  growing. 

Again  and  again  were  the  horses — always 
obliging  in  this  matter — made  to  stop  by  the 


84  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

peculiar  sound,  something  between  hiss,  roll, 
and  cluck,  which  to  the  Franconia  steed  means 
"Whoa!"  and  I  jumped  out  to  secure  some 
tall  stalk  of  baneberry  flowers,  a  branch  of 
hobble -bush,  or  red -berried  elder,  to  gather 
a  fragrant  bunch  of  smilacina  or  a  few  white 
violets. 

Just  as  I  had  returned  to  the  carriage  after 
one  of  these  raids,  and  the  horses  had  started 
up  in  a  sudden  spurt  of  speed,  "  too  bright  to 
last,"  I  saw  an  odd  sight.  In  the  small  garden 
back  of  a  house  past  which  we  were  flying 
was  a  woman  who  conducted  herself  in  the 
strangest  manner.  Though  apparently  rather 
elderly,  she  was  dashing  frantically  about,  her 
wide  cap-border  flapping  around  her  face,  her 
limp  calico  gown  twisted  about  her  ankles  by 
the  breeze,  and  her  long  arms  waving  in  the 
air.  In  one  hand  she  held  what  looked  to  me, 
as  I  was  hurried  by,  like  a  banner  of  dingy 
white  on  a  long  pole,  and  with  this  she  per 
formed  the  wildest  antics.  Now  it  was  waved 
aloft,  while  its  bearer  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  even 
sprang  into  the  air,  head  bent  backward  and 
face  upturned;  then  it  sank  to  the  ground,  or 


AUNT  RANDY.  85 

was  trailed  over  the  vegetable-beds.  Stand 
ing  up  in  the  carriage  and  looking  back  eager 
ly,  I  could  see  this  wild  dance  continue,  un 
til  suddenly  the  flag  was  quickly  lowered  or 
dashed  to  the  ground,  and  the  strange  stand 
ard-bearer  threw  herself  down  beside  it  in  a 
crouching  attitude,  and  seemed  to  clasp  its 
folds  in  her  skinny  hands. 

"  Nathan  !  Nathan  !"  I  cried,  breathless. 
"  What  is  it  ?  Oh,  who  is  she  ?" 

"Aunt  Randy." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  Is  she 
crazy  ?" 

Nathan  stooped  to  pick  up  a  branch  of  fly- 
honeysuckle  which  had  fallen  from  the  seat, 
as  he  answered,  impassively,  "Guess  not;  no 
more'n  most  women." 

"  But  what  is  she  doing  ?" 

"Ketchin'  butterflies." 

"Oh!"  cried  I,  drawing  a  long  breath,  ex 
pressive  of  both  disappointment  and  relief.  "I 
see ;  that  was  a  net  she  was  holding,  and  she 
is  a  collector." 

I  am  a  woman  of  hobbies  myself,  and  had 
lately  taken  up  entomology  with  some  ardor, 


86  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

so  I  felt  at  once  interested  in  this  congenial 
being,  and  questioned  Nathan  with  new  zeal. 
I  soon  knew  all  he  had  to  tell,  which  was  but 
little.  The  woman  had  come  to  Franconia  a 
few  years  before  from  North  Woodstock.  She 
was  dressed  in  black,  looked  pale  and  wretch 
ed,  and  seemed  to  be  alone  in  the  world.  She 
lived  by  herself  in  the  little  white  house  where 
we  saw  her,  and  "  didn't  seem  to  take  no  no-* 
tice  of  no  one."  She  avoided  the  neighbors, 
shut  herself  up  in  dark  rooms,  never  went  to 
"meetin"'  or  "sewin'  s'ciety"  or  any  such 
gathering,  and  refused  to  admit  the  minister 
or  other  friendly  visitors.  But  there  was  a 
sudden  change.  One  summer  day  she  was 
seen  in  a  field  near  her  house  "chasin'a  yel- 
ler  butterfly,"  and  after  that  she  was  a  differ 
ent  being. 

"She  took  to  all  kinds  o'  live  fly  in'  an' 
crawlin'  an'  hoppin'  creeters,"  the  story  went 
on.  "She'd  spend  a  hull  day  runnin'  after 
butterflies  and  millers,  and  huntin'  for  bugs  an' 
caterpillers  an'  spiders  an'  hoppergasses.  An' 
nights  she'd  be  scootin'  round  with  a  lantern 
to  ketch  them  big  hairy  things  like  bats  that 


AUNT  RANDY.  87 

flop  into  lights.  An'  she'd  keep  her  winder 
open  every  evenin',  and  start  up  an'  kite  'round 
the  room  with  that  kinder  fish-net,  an'  ketch 
every  blamed  thing  that  come  in.  An'  she  be 
gun  to  take  notice  o'  people — children  fust; 
an'  she'd  ask  the  boys  an'  girls  to  come  in  an' 
see  her  live  things,  an'  she'd  talk  real  nice  to 
'em — good's  a  book.  An'  somehow  she's  dif 
ferent  every  way,  pleasanter-spoken  an'  con 
tented  like.  Some  folks  thinks  she's  crazy,  an' 
she  does  act  dreffle  queer  sometimes.  But 
there's  crazier  people  outside  the  'sylums  than 
Aunt  Randy." 

"Is  she  married  ?  Has  she  a  family  ?" 
"Well,  folks  say  she's  a  widder,  an'  her  hus 
band  was  a  bad  lot.  She  never  says  nothin' 
about  him,  an'  she  don't  think  no  great  o' 
men -folks.  Her  name's  Mis' Gates,  an' Ran 
dy's  short  for  Mirandy ;  but  I  tell  folks  she's  so 
independent,  an'  sot  on  not  belongin'  to  no 
man,  she  won't  let  any  one  call  her  My  any 
thing,  so  she's  left  it  offo'  Randy." 

It  was  not  long  before  I  made  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  odd  entomologist.  I  think  she 
recognized  in  me  a  kindred  spirit,  saw  that  I 


88  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

too  liked  "flyin'  an'  crawlin'  an'  hoppin'  cree- 
ters,"and  so  met  my  advances  more  readily. 
The  boys  were  devoted  anglers  that  summer, 
and  there  were  trout  to  be  found  in  LandafT 
River.  So  we  would  all  drive  down  the  val 
ley  road,  stop  in  some  pleasant  shady  spot, 
and  leaving  the  horses  under  Nathan's  faithful 
though  sometimes  drowsy  care,  amuse  our 
selves  in  various  ways.  The  boys  were  hap 
py  for  hours  together  with  their  rods  and  lines. 
I  wandered  about  after  butterflies  and  moths, 
and  invariably  ended  by  stopping  before  Aunt 
Randy's  door. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  Aunt  Randy  had 
not  only  never  seen  a  book  about  insects,  but 
she  had  never  even  known,  until  she  met  me, 
that  such  books  existed.  She  had  never  met 
an  entomologist  or  any  one  interested  in  the 
study  of  her  favorites,  and  all  her  information 
was  derived  from  her  own  experience.  So  her 
talk  was  fresh  and  delightful,  and  quite  free 
from  polysyllabic  terms  and  the  ever-changing 
nomenclature  of  the  study  as  we  find  it  in 
books.  I  remember  that  the  first  thing  I  ever 
carried  to  her  for  identification  was  a  butter- 


AUNT  RANDY.  89 

fly.  It  was  the  large  dark  chocolate  one  with 
pale  yellow  borders,  known  as  the  Antiopa. 
Now  I  confess  I  knew  its  name  and  something 
of  its  habits,  but  I  wished  to  test  Aunt  Randy's 
knowledge.  As  she  saw  it  her  rugged  face 
lighted  up  with  a  smile  of  recognition,  and 
taking  it  gently  from  my  hands,  as  though  she 
were  touching  a  baby,  she  said : 

' '  Ah,  you  peart  little  feller !  Held  out  to  this 
time,  did  ye  ?  If  you  ain't  hardy  an'  full  o' 
pluck,  I  don't  know  who  is.  Ye  see  " — look 
ing  up  at  me — "this  kind  stands  the  winter 
right  through." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  perhaps  a  trifle  patron 
izingly,  "it  hibernates,  I  know." 

She  looked  a  little  puzzled,  but  went  on:  "I 
don't  know  about  that,  but  he  jest  gets  along 
somehow  through  our  cold  Francony  winters. 
Sometimes  I  find  'em  stickin'  to  the  rafters,  or 
snuggled  two  or  three  together  in  a  hole  be 
tween  the  stones  o'  the  old  wall  there,  or  in 
side  the  shed,  or  in  the  wood-pile,  lookin'  's  if 
they  was  dead  as  door-nails.  But  come  to 
bring  'em  in  by  the  fire,  or  hold  'em  a  spell  in 
my  hands,  they  come  to  life  agin.  An'  warm 


90  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

sunny  days  they'll  go  crawlin'  round,  an'  in  the 
spring,  when  the  frost  goes  out  o'  the  ground, 
an'  the  weather  gets  settled,  they  come  out  for 
good.  But  they're  pretty  hard  -lookin'  then, 
an'  they  don't  live  long  arter  layin'  their  eggs, 
an'  the  second  crop  don't  come  round  till  along 
the  fust  o'  August  or  thereabouts. " 

"  What  is  its  name  ?"  I  asked. 

"Waal,  I  don't  know  this  one  by  his  fust 
name;  he's  a  stranger  to  me — come  from  fur 
ther  down  the  road,  I  guess.  The  fam'ly  name 
I  give  'em  is  Tough,  'cause  they  stan'  the  cold 
so  well,  but  I  don't  know  all  their  given  names. 
Lizy  an'  Mary  Ann  spent  the  winter  under  the 
stone  out  there  by  the  wall,  an'  Caleb  stayed 
in  the  shed,  but  I've  lost  sight  of 'em  now, 
though  "  (looking  around  towards  the  garden) 
"  I  thought  I  see  Wilbur  jest  now  out  by  the 
fence." 

Shades  of  Linnaeus  and  Hubner  forgive  her ! 
Vanessa  antiopa  vulgarized  into  Mary  Ann 
Tough ! 

One  day  I  found  her  in  the  little  garden, 
holding  a  saucer  carefully  in  her  hands,  while 
a  ragged  specimen  of  the  common  cream- 


AUNT   RANDY.  91 

colored  butterfly  of  our  vegetable  gardens, 
Pieris  rapae,  sipped  at  the  contents. 

" Posies  is  so  scarce  jest  now,"  she  said, 
softly,  without  moving  or  looking  up,  lest  she 
should  disturb  her  fluttering  guest,  "that  I 
bring  out  sugar'n  water  for  'em  once  'n  a  while. 
This  one  's  dreffle  fond  o'  surrup,  an'  can't 
never  get  too  much.  This  is  one  o'  the  Cab- 
bagers,  's  I  call  'em,  'cause  o'  what  they  raise 
their  young  ones  on.  Her  folks  live  'round 
here,  an'  she  was  born  an'  reared  jest  back  o' 
the  house.  Why,  I  rec'lect  jest 's  well  as  any 
thing  when  she  was  a  mite  of  a  caterpillar  that 
couldn't  do  nothin'  but  crawl  an'  eat.  I  tell  ye, 
she  an'  her  brothers  an'  sisters  did  make  the 
cabbage-leaves  fly ;  I  never  see  nothin'  like  'em 
for  that  sort  o'  garden  sass — cold  slaw,  's  ye 
might  call  it.  An'  now  Malviny — that's  her 
given  name — has  forgot  her  beginnin's,  an' 
won't  take  nothin'  but  sugar,  for  she  's  got 
a  sweet  tooth — if  butterflies  ever  have  sech 
things." 

"But  how  do  you  know  Malviny  from  any 
other  white  cabbage  butterfly  ?"  I  asked. 

"How  do  you  know  your  dog  Kent,  that 


92  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

you  an'  the  boys  is  so  fond  on,  from  ary  other 
black  curly  dog,  or  your  yeller  horse,  Pirate, 
there,  from  ary  other  long -tailed  sorril?  For 
one  thing,  I  know  her  by  that  split  in  her  right- 
hand  back  wing,  an'  that  rubbed  place  between 
her  shoulders.  But  it's  her  ways  I  tell  her  by, 
mostly;  we've  all  got  ways,  ye  know." 

And  so  she  lived  on,  surrounded  by  her  in 
sect  friends,  loving  them,  understanding  them, 
calling  each  one  by  his  Christian  name,  and 
quite  happy  in  their  society.  There  was  a  big 
dragon-fly  with  spotted  wings  whom  she 
addressed  as  Horace,  and  who,  she  declared, 
had  followed  her  weeks  ago  all  the  way  from 
Streeter's  Pond  as  she  drove  home  with  her 
old  mare  and  the  buck-board.  And  as  she 
dwelt  upon  the  salient  points  of  his  character, 
his  sense  of  humor  and  comical  disposition, 
while  he  whizzed  about  her  head,  I  declare  he 
did  look  to  me  quite  unlike  other  dragon-flies. 
I  seemed  to  see  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  big 
eyes,  and  for  the  moment  firmly  believed  in 
Horace's  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  Aunt  Randy 
and  I  soon  became  warm  friends,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  she  told  me  her  story.  I  need 


AUNT  RANDY.  93 

not  dwell  upon  the  early  part  of  it.  Her  mar 
ried  life  was  a  hard  one,  her  husband  a  shift 
less,  idle  vagabond.  She  did  not  apply  these 
epithets,  but  the  facts  spoke  for  themselves. 
She  worked  hard,  and  he  spent  her  earnings 
at  the  tavern.  They  had  one  child,  a  boy,  and 
to  him  the  mother's  heart  clung  as  to  nothing 
else  in  earth  or  heaven.  For  his  sake  she 
struggled  on,  bore  her  husband's  neglect  and 
ill-treatment,  worked  for  all  three,  and  kept 
some  little  remnant  of  faith  and  hope  in  her 
heart.  At  last  one  winter's  day  her  husband 
went  away  and  never  returned.  Some  weeks 
later  she  heard  of  his  death,  and  was  free.  Just 
then  a  distant  relative,  of  whom  she  had  lost 
sight  for  many  years,  died  and  left  her  a  little 
money ;  so  new  hope  sprang  up  in  her  chilled 
heart.  She  would  take  the  child,  she  thought, 
buy  a  little  place  in  some  quiet  village,  and 
leave  her  wretched  past  far  behind  her.  Alas 
for  human  hopes!  Just  as  the  little  house  in 
Franconia  was  secured,  and  she  was  about  to 
remove  there  with  her  child,  the  boy  sickened 
and  died. 
If  I  should  write  pages  I  could  not  convey 


94  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

to  you,  as  the  few  abrupt  words  of  this  pa 
tient,  undemonstrative  New  England  woman 
conveyed  to  me,  all  the  tragic  meaning  of  that 
loss  to  her.  As  a  child  she  had  lived  in  a 
Christian  home,  and  had  some  religious  train 
ing,  and  amid  all  her  trials  hitherto  she  had 
tried  in  her  poor  blind  way  to  believe  and  trust 
and  think  that  somehow  things  were  for  the 
best.  But  now,  with  this  terrible  blow,  all 
faith  in  God  and  man  was  killed.  She  buried 
the  boy  with  no  more  thought  or  hope  of  a 
future  reunion  than  has  the  veriest  heathen, 
left  his  grave  and  their  old  home — a  grave, 
too,  now  in  which  all  hope  and  faith  were  en 
tombed — and  came  to  Franconia,  where  she 
lived  for  months  the  solitary  life  of  which 
Nathan  had  told  me,  a  misanthropic,  hopeless 
soul.  Let  me  try  now  to  tell  you  in  Aunt 
Randy's  own  words,  as  near  as  may  be,  how 
the  change  came. 

"I  used  to  shet  myself  up  here  all  day  an' 
think.  I  couldn't  have  no  posy  gard'n  or  any 
thing  like  that,  now  the  little  feller  wa'n't  here 
to  play  in  it.  An'  I  couldn't  bear  to  hear  the 
birds  singin',  'cause  he  used  to  like  'em  so, 


AUNT   RANDY.  95 

an'  I'd  jest  shet  up  my  eyes  as  I  went  along 
so's  not  to  see  the  vi'lets  an'  dand'lions  an' 
butter -'n'- eggs,  an'  them  posies  he  used  to 
pick  an'  fetch  in  to  me  in  his  little  fat  hands. 
But  one  day  I  had  to  go  down  the  road  a 
piece,  of  an  errand,  an'  before  I  could  help  it  I 
ketcht  sight  of  a  big  clump  o'  fire- weed  shinin' 
all  pink  in  the  sun.  Now,  fire-weed  was  my 
boy's  fav'rite  posy;  it  growed  all  round  our 
house  in  North  Woodstock,  an'  he  used  to  pick 
it  an'  fetch  in  big  bunches  on  it,  an'  set  'em  in 
the  old  blue  pitcher.  He  was  dreffle  fond  o' 
that  plant,  an'  when  I  see  it — well,  it  all  come 
over  me  so,  I  jest  bust  out  cryin'  right  in  the 
road,  an'  I  was  'fraid  somebody  'd  see  me,  so 
I  had  to  stop  an'  purtend  I  was  lookin'  at  the 
posies.  An'  as  I  was  stoopin'  down  a-lookin' 
an'  tryin'  to  get  my  handk'chief  out,  I  see  a  big 
worm  on  the  fire-weed.  'Twa'n't  crawlin'  or 
eatin',  but  jest  settin'  up  on  its  hind-legs  in  the 
humanest  way,  with  its  head  up  an'  its  hands 
out,  an' —  You'll  think  I'm  an  old  fool,  but 
what  with  the  water  in  my  eyes  an'  the  sun 
a-dazzlin'  me,  an'  my  heart  just  breakin'  for 
that  boy,  why,  I  kinder  thought  that  worm 


96  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

favored  the  young  one,  an'  I  felt  the  queerest 
drawin'  to  it.  I  reached  out  my  finger  to  poke 
it,  an'  it  put  down  its  head  an'  drawed  its  chin 
in  for  all  the  world  like  that  boy  when  he  was 
scaret  an'  bashful.  I  tell  ye,  from  that  minnit 
I  'dopted  that  creeter  an'  took  him  right  inter 
my  heart.  I  hadn't  cared  for  a  livin'  thing 
afore  sence  that  little  coffin  went  out  my  front 
gate,  an'  I  tell  ye  'twas  good  to  feel  that  draw- 
in'  towards  suthin'.  I  picked  the  plant  he  was 
on,  an'  I  carried  him  home  jest  's  careful,  an' 
then  I  fixed  a  box  o'  dirt  an'  stuck  the  plant 
in,  an'  jest  let  it  alone  till  he'd  got  kind  of  ac 
quainted  like.  But,  dear  me!  he  made  friends 
to  once ;  he  never  tried  to  get  away ;  he  never 
was  off  his  vittles  from  the  minnit  he  come. 
The  fust  time  I  see  him  eat  my  heart  come 
right  up  in  my  mouth,  he  et  so  like  my  boy, 
jest  bitin'  little  bites  right  reg'lar  round  an' 
round  a  leaf  till  he'd  made  a  place  the  shape  o' 
half  a  cent,  like  the  boy'd  do  with  his  cooky. 
I  named  him  Jacob  after  the  other,  an' —  Oh, 
1  can't  tell  ye  what  a  comfort  he  was  to  me! 
I  hadn't  had  no  pervidin'  to  do  for  so  long,  but 
now  I  had  to  go  down  the  road  every  single 


AUNT   RANDY.  97 

Tnornin'  an'  get  fresh  fire-weed  for  Jacob  to 
eat.  I  put  a  cup  o'  water  for  him  too,  but  I 
never  see  him  drink.  I  guess  he  licked  the 
water  off  the  leaves,  for  I  used  to  wet  'em  to 
make  'em  tasty  an'  temptin'.  Another  thing 
that  made  him  look  like  the  boy  was  his  color. 
He  was  kind  o'  blacky-green,  with  round  pink 
spots  on  his  sides,  for  all  the  world  like  my 
other  Jacob  in  his  little  tight  jacket  with  the 
glass  buttons  I  made  for  him  outer  my  old  in 
visible  green  dress.  An'  he  had  a  little  pink 
face,  an'  he  used  to  look  up  at  me  so  peart 
an'  knowin'  when  I'd  talk  to  him.  'Twas  a 
new  thing  to  me,  after  all  them  lonesome 
months,  to  have  some  one  at  home  waitin'  for 
me  when  I  was  out,  an'  I  used  to  hurry  back 
's  quick 's  I  could  jest 's  if  the  boy  was  watch- 
in'  at  the  winder  with  his  pretty  little  nose  all 
flat  agin  the  glass. 

"  I  had  a  stick  stan'in'  up  in  his  box,  an'  a 
big  piece  o'  mosquiter  nettin'  over  it  like  a  tent, 
but  I  only  kep'  it  shet  down  when  I  was  out, 
an'  nights,  for  I  didn't  want  him  to  think  he 
was  locked  up,  an'  every  night  at  bedtime  I'd 
go  an'  draw  down  that  nettin'  snug  an'  tie  a 
7 


98  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

string  round  the  bottom,  an'  look  in  last  thing 
to  see  if  he  was  all  right.  You'd  scarcely 
b'lieve  how  that  tuckin'  in  helped  me  after  I'd 
been  without  it  such  a  spell. 

"'Twas  gettin' late  in  the  season — 'twas 
the  fust  day  o'  September  I  took  him  —  an' I 
begun  to  think  about  the  winter,  an'  how  I 
should  make  Jacob  comfortable.  I  thought  I'd 
move  inter  the  front  bedroom,  where  there 
was  a  stove,  an'  take  him  right  in  there  to 
sleep.  An'  as  for  food,  why,  I'd  dig  up  a  lot 
o'  fire-weed  an'  set  it  out  in  pots,  an'  keep  him 
in  vittles  till  spring.  I'd  found  by  this  time 
that  he  wouldn't  eat  nothin'  else :  he  was  real 
set  in  his  ways.  I  tried  him  on  the  nicest 
things — rose  leaves  an'  buttercups  an'  lavender 
an'  diffunt  yarbs — but  he'd  jest  smell  at  'em  an' 
turn  away,  an' look  for  his  fire -weed.  That 
was  so  like  the  boy!  If  he  wanted  ginger 
bread,  he  wanted  it;  an'  dough-nuts,  nor  jum 
bles,  nor  sour-milk  cake,  nor  not  even  meat- 
pie  would  do — he  must  have  gingerbread  or 
nothin'. 

"Well,  I  might's  well  come  to  the  wust 
sooner  's  later.  One  day  I  see  Jacob  didn't 


AUNT   RANDY.  99 

seem  like  hisself ;  he  stopped  eatin',  an'  went 
crawlin' round 's  if  he  wanted  suthin'  he  hadn't 
got.  I  give  him  water  an'  fresh  fire-weed ;  I 
set  him  by  the  north  winder  where  the  wind 
blew  in,  for  'twas  a  hot  day ;  but  nothin'  did 
any  good.  All  day  he  went  crawlin'  round, 
restless  an'  fev'rish  like,  never  eatin'  nothin', 
nor  takin'  any  notice  o'  anything.  I  set  up  by 
him  all  night  long,  my  heart 's  heavy  as  lead, 
for  I  was  goin'  over  again  them  dreffle  days 
when  my  boy  took  sick.  Just  at  daylight  he 
crawled  down  onto  the  ground  an'  lay  there  a 
spell,  an'  then  I  heerd  him  a-rustlin'  about,  an' 
when  I  looked  he  was  kinder  diggin'  in  the 
ground,  pickin'  up  little  bits  o'  dirt  an'  throw- 
in'  'em  about.  '  It's  like  pickin'  at  the  bed 
clothes,'  I  says,  my  heart  a-sinkin'  'way  down. 
So  he  went  on  for  hours  diggin',  diggin'.  I 
put  him  up  on  the  leaves  lots  o'  times,  but 
he'd  crawl  right  down  agin,  so  I  let  him  alone 
't  last.  Bimeby  I  see  he'd  made  quite  a  little 
hole,  an'  all  on  a  suddent  it  come  into  my  head 
he  was  makin'  a  grave. 

"An'  he  was.     Slow  an'  sure  he  dug,  an' 
crawled  in  's  he  dug,  an'  I  sat  watchin'  hour 


100  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

after  hour,  an'  cryin'  my  poor  old  heart  out 
over  him.  An'  late  in  the  afternoon  he'd  fin 
ished  his  work,  an'  buried  hisself,  jest  leavin'  a 
little  hole  at  his  head ;  an'  he  put  up  his  little 
pink  face  an'  looked  at  me  so  human-like,  an' 
then  he  reached  out  an'  took  a  little  lump  o' 
dirt  an'  pulled  it  over  the  hole,  an'  he  was 
gone,  an'  I  hadn't  anything  left  in  all  the  world 
but  my  two  graves!" 

The  old  woman  stopped  and  wiped  her  eyes 
before  she  could  go  on,  and  I  assure  you  that 
I  forgot  the  hero  of  her  story  was  nothing  but 
a  caterpillar,  and  found  my  own  eyes  wet. 

"Well,"  she  at  last  proceeded, "  I  didn't  dis 
turb  him.  Seemed  's  if  God  had  some  way  o' 
tellin'  dumb  creeters  when  they  was  to  die,  an' 
so  I  tied  the  nettin'  down  over  his  box  an'  left 
him  there. 

"I  better  not  say  much  about  that  time. 
Twas  a  bad  spell.  My  heart,  that  had  got 
kind  o'  soft  an'  warm  with  somethin'  to  love 
an'  take  care  on,  got  hard  an'  frozen  agin,  an' 
oh,  the  hard  thoughts  I  had  o'  God  for  takin' 
my  last  comfort  away,  an'  lettin'  both  my  little 
Jacobs  go  away  to  lay  for  ever  'n'  ever  in  the 


AUNT  RANbV.  fOI 

dark  an'  cold  !  The  spring-time  came,  an'  I 
hated  it;  an' oh,  I  dreaded  the  time  when  the 
fire-weed  would  come  out  all  pink  an'  bright, 
with  him  not  there  no  more  to  eat  it,  nor  my 
curly -headed  boy  to  pick  it!  One  summer 
day — I  sha'n't  never  forget  it 's  long  's  I  live — 
I  was  standin'  by  Jacob's  little  grave  (I'd  al 
ways  kep'  his  box  in  my  room  jest 's  it  was), 
when  I  see  the  dirt  had  got  shook  off  the  top, 
an'  the  poor  little  body,  all  dried  up  an'  brown 
now,  was  kinder  oncovered.  I  was  jest  a-go- 
in'  to  cover  it  up  agin  softly,  when  I  see  a  little 
crack  come  on  it,  an' — oh,  I  can't  tell  it  all  out  in 
this  slow,  quiet  way !  I  wish  't  could  come  on 
you  as  it  did  on  me  that  blessed  day — Jacob  was 
comin'  to  life  agin !  he  was — he  was !  I  watch 
ed  him,  never  touchin'  or  speakin'  to  him — 
though  I  jest  ached  to  help — till  the  end  come, 
an'  he  was  big  an'  beautiful,  brown  an'  buff  an' 
pink,  an'  with  wings  !  Oh,  Mis'  Burton,  I  can't 
put  it  inter  words  how  I  felt  when  I  see  Jacob 
come  out  o'  his  very  grave  an'  spread  his  wings 
an'  fly  round  my  room,  nor  how  I  cried  right 
out  loud  as  I  see  it :  '  Why  not  my  boy  too  ? 
O  Lord,  you  can  do  that  jest 's  easy 's  this!'  " 


102  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

I  left  Franconia  at  the  end  of  summer,  and 
during  the  winter  months  heard  nothing  from 
the  little  snow-bound  village.  But  when  June 
came  again  I  sought,  as  for  twenty  years  I  have 
sought,  the  grand  old  mountains — old  but  ever 
new.  One  of  my  earliest  visits  was  to  the  lit 
tle  white  house  of  Aunt  Randy.  I  spied  my 
old  friend  in  the  garden,  and  felt  sure  she  was 
having  a  friendly  gossip  with  some  winged 
friends.  I  passed  through  the  gate  to  join  her, 
and  as  I  did  so  saw  a  man  sitting  on  the  door 
steps.  He  was  unmistakably  of  the  genus 
tramp,  had  a  mean,  sly  face,  with  light  shifting 
eyes,  and  looked  a  thorough  vagabond.  I  won 
dered  at  his  presence  there,  but  forgot  it  in 
stantly  in  the  pleasure  of  meeting  again  my 
old  comrade.  She  knew  me  at  once,  and  her 
rugged  face,  thinner  and  more  worn  than  when 
I  last  saw  her,  brightened  as  she  met  me.  Af 
ter  a  few  words  of  greeting  she  asked  me  to 
come  into  the  house,  and  we  were  soon  seat 
ed  in  the  familiar  room,  the  scene  of  Jacob's 
death  and  apotheosis. 

' '  Did  you  see  him  ?"  she  suddenly  asked,  with 
a  jerk  of  her  head  towards  the  front  door. 


AUNT   RANDY.  IO3 

"  I  saw  a  man  outside,"  I  replied. 

' '  It's  him, "  she  went  on,  quietly — ' '  my  hus 
band,  ye  know — Mr.  Gates.  He  wa'n't  dead ; 
'twas  a  mistake,  somehow;  an'  he  come  home 
las' winter!" 

For  a  minute  I  was  speechless,  and  before  I 
could  decide  what  to  say,  whether  to  congrat 
ulate  or  condole  with  my  friend,  she  spoke 
again : 

"I  can  speak  plain  to  you,  for  I  got  to  feel 
so  to  home  with  you  las'  summer,  an'ye'll  un- 
derstan'  me.  When  I  see  him  comin'  in  one 
day,  ragged,  an' dirty,  an'  —  well,  smellin' o' 
liquor  some — 1  wa'n't  glad  to  see  him.  There 
was  things  I  couldn't  disremember,  somehow ; 
an'  I'd  thought  he  was  dead  an'  gone,  an'  got 
used  to  it;  an' — I  didn't  seem  to  want  him. 
Then — 'twas  kinder  mean  of  me,  but  I  thought 
he'd  heerd  o'  the  little  property  I'd  come  into, 
an'  mebbe  he  was  arter  that,  an'  I  kinder  hard 
ened  my  heart.  But  when  I  see  how  sickly 
an'  peaked  he  looked,  an'  what  a  holler  cough 
he  had,  an'  how  poor  an'  mis'rable  he  was,  I 
begun  to  feel  a  little  more  Christian-like.  So  I 
took  him  in  an'  done  for  him.  I  nussed  him, 


1O4  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

got  him  new  clo'es,  fed  him  up,  kep'him  warm 
an'  comfort'ble,  an'  " — with  one  of  her  quaint 
sudden  smiles,  which  always  reminded  me  of 
one  of  those  quick  darting  bits  of  sunlight 
which  come  at  times,  you  know  not  how,  over 
old  Lafayette's  rocky  brow — "  an'  I  finished  up 
by  gettin'  kinder  fond  on  him.  Now,  Mis' 
Burton, "she  said,  more  gravely,  "he's  never 
had  no  'dvantages.  He  never  took  no  notice 
o'  worms  or  sech  creeters,  an'  had  no  idee 
what  caterpillars  turned  inter  or  outer;  an'  as 
for  dead  things,  be  they  worms  or  folks,  they 
was  dead,  to  his  thinkin',  for  goodenall.  So  I 
considered  all  that,  an'  made  'lowances,  an'  I 
begun  to  learn  him  religion,  little  at  a  time.  I 
didn't  use  no  Bible;  he  wouldn't  ha' stood  that 
— none  o'  his  fam'ly  ever  would ;  they  ain't 
Scripter  folks,  the  Gateses  ain't.  But  I  told 
him  all  about  the  crawlin'  an'  flyin'  creeters  an' 
their  ways,  an'  held  'em  up  as  Christian  'xam- 
ples  to  humans;  how  they  went  about  their 
bizness  so  stiddy  an'  reg'lar,  an'  pervided  for 
their  fam'lies,  an'  built  their  own  houses,  an' 
was  always  to  home,  an'  how  forehanded  they 
was,  lookin'  ahead  an'  layin'  up  vittles  for  their 


AUNT   RANDY.  105 

child'en  who's  to  come  arter  'em,  an'  all  them 
things,  ye  know.  An'  las'  of  all,  I  told  him 
'bout  Jacob.  Ye  see  he  liked  that  boy  of  ourn 
better'n  he  ever  liked  anything  else,  an'  I  never 
let  on  to  the  boy  that  there  was  anything  out 
o'  the  way  with  his  pa ;  so  the  little  feller  reely 
set  by  Mr.  Gates.  An'  when  the  frost  got  outer 
the  groun'  this  spring  I  wanted  to  take  up  the 
boy  an' bring  him  over  from  North  Woodstock, 
an'  keep  him  in  the  graveyard  here,  nigher  by. 
An' I  took  Mr.  Gates  along;  an'  as  we  was 
bringin'the  little  coffin  home  I  jest  told  him 
that  story  about  the  other  body  and  the  mir'cle 
I  see  with  my  own  eyes." 

"And  was  he  impressed  by  it  ?"  I  asked,  as 
she  paused  for  breath. 

"Well,  I  don' know.  He's  got  sorter  wa- 
t'ry  eyes  nat'rally — all  the  Gateses  have — but 
I  kinder  thought  they  was  wetter'n  common 
when  I  got  through,  but 'twas  a  blowy  day; 
an'  he  was  real  car'ful  about  liftin'  the  coffin, 
an'  when  the  men  was  helpin'  fill  up  the  grave 
he  stood  close  by,  an'  I  heerd  him  ask  'em 
not  to  put  so  much  dirt  on  top,  nor  stomp  it 
down  hard,  an'  I  s'mised  he  was  thinkin'  o' 


106  SEVEN  DREAMERS. 

the  risin',  an'  plannin'  how  the  little  feller'd 
come  out." 

The  hard,  work- worn  hands  brushed  some 
thing  from  the  thin  cheek  as  she  spoke,  and  I 
thought  that  even  the  "  Gateses"  by  marriage 
seemed  sometimes  to  have  "  wat'ry  eyes." 

11  But  his  cough  grows  hollerer  an'  hackier, 
Mis'  Burton,  an'  Dr.  Sankey  tells  me  he  ain't 
long  for  this  world !  an'  oh,  I'm  so  dreffle  pleas 
ed  he  come  home  when  he  did,  an'  didn't  die 
without  any  preparin',  or  hearin' '  the  gospil's 
joyful  soun','  as  my  old  mother  useter  sing. 
A  queer  gospil,  ye  may  say,  but  I  never  heerd 
a  better  sermon  preached  by  Elder  Garrick  or 
Father  Howe  than  that  blessed  caterpillar  o' 
the  church  preached  to  me  when  he  broke 
outer  the  grave  that  res'rection  day  last  July. 
An'  I  tell  ye  when  I'm  talkin'  caterpillars  and 
bugs  an'  such,  I  throw  in,  without  scarin'  him, 
a  good  deal  o'  Scripter  religion  too,  an'  he 
knows  mighty  well — or  'tain't  my  fault — who's 
behind  it  all,  an'  respons'ble  for  their  goin's  on 
an'  all  the  good  in  'em.  An' " — with  her  queer 
quick  smile  again — "  I  do  a  heap  o'  prayin'  for 
him  he  never  has  the  faintest  idee  on.  It's 


AUNT   RANDY.  107 

mean,  I  hold,  to  pray  at  a  man,  but's  long  as 
he  don't  know  what  I'm  doin'  it  can't  hurt 
him,  an'  it's  a  dreffle  relief  to  me. 

"An'  he's  improvin'  on  it,  an'  I've  got  hopes 
on  him,  Mis'  Burton.  I've  seen  wuss  caterpil 
lars  'n  him  turn  inter  real  sightly  flyin'  things, 
not  the  best  nor  han'somest,  mebbe,  not  big 
green  an'  buff  angels  like  Jacob,  but  suthin' 
with  wings,  'tennerate,  an'  that's  a  good  deal. 
There  was  a  fat,  logy,  whitish  worm  I  knew 
once,  with  a  blue  streak  down  his  back,  that 
lived  on  a  white  birch  across  the  road.  His 
name  was  Ad'niram  Judson  Birch,  an'  I  had  big 
hopes  o'  him — thought  he  was  goin'  to  be  a  big 
stripid  butterfly ;  he  et  enough  to  make  one  a 
foot  across — but  he  hadn't  any  ambition  or 
fac'lty,  somehow — jest  et  an'  stuffed,  an'  never 
got  on — an'  he  only  come  out  a  kind  of  a  saw- 
fly,  without  any  bright  colors  on  him,  or  feath 
ers,  or  anything.  But  he  had  wings.  I  tell  ye 
there's  wings  in  us  all  'f  we  could  see  'em.  An' 
when  Mr.  Gates  gits  off  his  caterpillar  skin,  an' 
comes  up  an'  shakes  the  dirt  all  off,  I  ain't  go- 
in'  to  be  one  mite  ashamed  on  him,  's  long  as 
he's  got  wings." 


108  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

I  was  called  away  unexpectedly  from  the 
mountains  a  few  days  after  this  interview,  and 
did  not  return  that  year.  Nathan,  a  rare  and 
reticent  correspondent,  wrote  me  a  few  weeks 
after  my  departure  as  follows : 

"Old  Gates,  Aunt  Randy's  wuthless  hus 
band,  pegged  out  last  week.  Good  riddunse! 
Don't  need  a  Yanky  to  guess  where  he's  gone." 

But  I  try  to  forget  the  one  glimpse  I  had  of 
the  mean,  sly  face  and  cringing  figure,  and  re 
member  only  dear  old  Aunt  Randy's  faith  and 
prayers,  and  her  simple  creed:  "There's  wings 
in  us  all  'f  we  could  see  'em." 


IV. 

FISHIN*   JIMMY. 

"'£fe  Icadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters'* 

Psalm  xxiii.  a. 


FISHIN'  JIMMY. 

IT  was  on  the  margin  of  Pond,  Brook,  just 
back  of  Uncle  Eben's,  that  I  first  saw  Fishin' 
Jimmy.  It  was  early  June,  and  we  were  again 
at  Franconia,  that  peaceful  little  village  among 
the  northern  hills. 

The  boys,  as  usual,  were  tempting  the  trout 
with  false  fly  or  real  worm,  and  I  was  roam 
ing  along  the  bank,  seeking  spring  flowers, 
and  hunting  early  butterflies  and  moths.  Sud 
denly  there  was  a  little  plash  in  the  water  at 
the  spot  where  Ralph  was  fishing,  the  slender 
tip  of  his  rod  bent,  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out 
"Strike  him,  sonny,  strike  him!"  and  an  old 
man  came  quickly  but  noiselessly  through  the 
bushes  just  as  Ralph's  line  flew  up  into  space, 
with,  alas !  no  shining,  spotted  trout  upon  the 
hook.  The  new-comer  was  a  spare,  wiry  man 
of  middle  height,  with  a  slight  stoop  in  his 
shoulders,  a  thin  brown  face,  and  scanty  gray 
hair.  He  carried  a  fishing-rod,  and  had  some 
small  trout  strung  on  a  forked  stick  in  one 


112  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

hand.  A  simple,  homely  figure,  yet  he  stands 
out  in  memory  just  as  I  saw  him  then,  no 
more  to  be  forgotten  than  the  granite  hills,  the 
rushing  streams,  the  cascades  of  that  north 
country  I  love  so  well. 

We  fell  into  talk  at  once,  Ralph  and  Waldo 
rushing  eagerly  into  questions  about  the  fish, 
the  bait,  the  best  spots  in  the  stream,  advanc 
ing  their  own  small  theories,  and  asking  ad 
vice  from  their  new  friend ;  for  friend  he  seem 
ed  even  in  that  first  hour,  as  he  began,  simply 
but  so  wisely,  to  teach  my  boys  the  art  he 
loved.  They  are  older  now,  and  are  no  mean 
anglers,  I  believe,  but  they  look  back  gratefully 
to  those  brookside  lessons,  and  acknowledge 
gladly  their  obligations  to  Fishin' Jimmy.  But 
it  is  not  of  these  practical  teachings  I  would 
now  speak ;  rather  of  the  lessons  of  simple 
faith,  of  unwearied  patience,  of  self-denial  and 
cheerful  endurance  which  the  old  man  himself 
seemed  to  have  learned,  strangely  enough, 
from  the  very  sport  so  often  called  cruel  and 
murderous.  Incomprehensible  as  it  may  seem, 
to  his  simple  intellect  the  fisherman's  art  was 
a  whole  system  of  morality,  a  guide  for  every- 


FISHIN   JIMMY.  113 

day  life,  an  education,  a  gospel.  It  was  all  any 
poor  mortal  man,  woman,  or  child  needed  in 
this  world  to  make  him  or  her  happy,  useful, 
good. 

At  first  we  scarcely  realized  this,  and  won 
dered  greatly  at  certain  things  he  said,  and  the 
tone  in  which  he  said  them.  I  remember,  at 
that  first  meeting,  I  asked  him,  rather  careless 
ly,  "Do  you  like  fishing?"  He  did  not  reply 
at  first;  then  he  looked  at  me  with  those  odd, 
limpid,  green-gray  eyes  of  his  which  always 
seemed  to  reflect  the  clear  waters  of  mountain 
streams,  and  said,  very  quietly,  "You  wouldn't 
ask  me  if  I  liked  my  mother — or  my  wife." 
And  he  always  spoke  of  his  pursuit  as  one 
speaks  of  something  very  dear,  very  sacred. 
Part  of  his  story  1  learned  from  others,  but 
most  of  it  from  himself,  bit  by  bit,  as  we  wan 
dered  together  day  by  day  in  that  lovely  hill- 
country.  As  I  tell  it  over  again  I  seem  to  hear 
the  rush  of  mountain  streams,  the  "sound  of 
a  going  in  the  tops  of  the  trees,  "the  sweet, 
pensive  strain  of  white-throat  sparrow,  and 
the  plash  of  leaping  trout ;  to  see  the  crystal- 
clear  waters  pouring  over  granite  rock,  the 
8 


114  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

wonderful  purple  light  upon  the  mountains, 
the  flash  and  glint  of  darting  fish,  the  tender 
green  of  early  summer  in  the  north  country. 

Fishin'  Jimmy's  real  name  was  James  Whit- 
cher.  He  was  born  in  the  Franconia  Valley, 
and  his  whole  life  had  been  passed  there.  He 
had  always  fished  ;  he  could  not  remember 
when  or  how  he  learned  the  art.  From  the 
days  when,  a  tiny,  barelegged  urchin  in  rag 
ged  frock,  he  had  dropped  his  piece  of  string 
with  its  bent  pin  at  the  end  into  the  narrow, 
shallow  brooklet  behind  his  father's  house, 
through  early  boyhood's  season  of  roaming 
along  Gale  River,  wading  Black  Brook,  row 
ing  a  leaky  boat  on  Streeter's  or  Mink  Pond, 
through  youth,  through  manhood,  on  and  on 
into  old  age,  his  life  had  apparently  been  one 
long  day's  fishing — an  angler's  holiday.  Had 
it  been  only  that?  He  had  not  cared  for 
books  or  school,  and  all  efforts  to  tie  him 
down  to  study  were  unavailing.  But  he  knew 
well  the  books  of  running  brooks.  No  dry  bo 
tanical  text-book  or  manual  could  have  taught 
him  all  he  now  knew  of  plants  and  flowers 
and  trees. 


FISHIN' JIMMY.  115 

He  did  not  call  the  yellow  spatterdock  Nu- 
phar  advena,  but  he  knew  its  large  leaves  of 
rich  green,  where  the  black  bass  and  pickerel 
sheltered  themselves  from  the  summer  sun, 
and  its  yellow  balls  on  stout  stems,  around 
which  his  line  so  often  twined  and  twisted,  or 
in  which  the  hook  caught,  not  to  be  jerked 
out  till  the  long,  green,  juicy  stalk  itself,  topped 
with  globe  of  greenish  gold,  came  up  from  its 
wet  bed.    He  knew  the  sedges  along  the  bank 
with  their  nodding  tassels  and  stiff  lance-like 
leaves,  the  feathery  grasses,  the  velvet  moss 
upon  the  wet  stones,  the  sea-green  lichen  on 
bowlder  or  tree-trunk.     There,  in  that  corner 
of  Echo  Lake,  grew  the  thickest  patch  of  pipe- 
wort,  with  its  small,  round,  grayish -white, 
mushroom-shaped  tops  on  long,  slender  stems. 
If  he  had  styled  it  Eriocaulon  septangulare, 
would  it  have  shown  a  closer  knowledge  of 
its  habits  than  did  his  careful  avoidance  of  its 
vicinity,  his  keeping  line  and  flies  at  a  safe 
distance,  as  he  muttered  to  himself,  "Them 
pesky  butt'ns  agin!"     He  knew  by  sight  the 
bur-reed  of  mountain  ponds,  with  its  round, 
prickly  balls  strung  like  big  beads  on  the  stiff, 


Il6  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

erect  stalks;  the  little  water -lobelia,  with  its 
tiny  purple  blossoms,  springing  from  the  wa 
ters  of  lake  and  pond.  He  knew,  too,  all  the 
strange,  beautiful  under -water  growth — blad- 
derwort,  in  long,  feathery  garlands,  pellucid 
water -weed,  quillwort,  in  stiff  little  bunches 
with  sharp-pointed  leaves  of  olive-green — all  so 
seldom  seen  save  by  the  angler  whose  hooks 
draw  up  from  time  to  time  the  wet,  lovely  tan 
gle.  I  remember  the  amusement  with  which 
a  certain  well-known  botanist,  who  had  jour 
neyed  to  the  mountains  in  search  of  a  little 
plant,  found  many  years  ago  near  Echo  Lake, 
but  not  since  seen,  heard  me  propose  to  con 
sult  Fishin' Jimmy  on  the  subject.  But  I  was 
wiser  than  he  knew.  Jimmy  looked  at  the 
specimen  brought  as  an  aid  to  identification. 
It  was  dry  and  flattened,  and  as  unlike  a  living, 
growing  plant  as  are  generally  the  specimens 
from  an  herbarium.  But  it  showed  the  awl- 
shaped  leaves,  and  thread-like  stalk  with  its 
tiny  round  seed-vessels,  like  those  of  our  com 
mon  shepherd's -purse,  and  Jimmy  knew  it  at 
once.  "There's  a  dreffle  lot  o'  that  pepper- 
grass  out  in  deep  water  there,  jest  where  I 


FISHIN' JIMMY.  117 

kctched  the  big  pick'ril,"  he  said,  quietly.  "\ 
seen  it  nigh  a  foot  high,  an'  it's  jucier  an'  liv- 
in'er  than  them  dead  sticks  in  your  book."  At 
our  request  he  accompanied  the  unbelieving 
botanist  and  myself  to  the  spot,  and  there, 
looking  down  through  the  sunlit  water,  we 
saw  great  patches  of  that  rare  and  long-lost 
plant  of  the  cruciferae  known  to  science  as 
Subularia  aquatica.  For  forty  years  it  had  hid 
den  itself  away,  growing  and  blossoming  and 
casting  abroad  its  tiny  seeds,  in  its  watery 
home,  unseen,  or  at  least  unnoticed,  by  living 
soul  except  by  the  keen,  soft,  limpid  eyes  of 
Fishin' Jimmy.  And  he  knew  the  trees  and 
shrubs  so  well :  the  alder  and  birch,  from  which 
as  a  boy  he  cut  his  simple,  pliant  pole ;  the 
shad-blow  and  iron-wood  (he  called  them,  re 
spectively,  sugar -plum  and  hardhack),  which 
he  used  for  the  more  ambitious  rods  of  ma- 
turer  years;  the  mooseberry,  wayfaring -tree, 
hobble-bush,  or  triptoe — it  has  all  these  names 
— with  stout,  trailing  branches,  over  which  he 
stumbled  as  he  hurried  through  the  woods 
and  underbrush  in  the  darkening  twilight. 
He  had  never  heard  of  entomology.  Gue- 


Il8  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

nee,  Htibner,  and  Fabricius  were  unknown 
names,  but  he  could  have  told  these  worthies 
many  new  things.  Did  they  know  just  at 
what  hour  the  trout  ceased  leaping  at  dark  fly 
or  moth,  and  could  see  only  in  the  dim  light 
the  ghostly  white  miller?  Did  they  know 
the  comparative  merits,  as  a  tempting  bait, 
of  grasshopper,  cricket,  spider,  or  wasp ;  and 
could  they,  with  bits  of  wool,  tinsel,  and  feath 
er,  copy  the  real  dipterous,  hymenopterous,  or 
orthopterous  insect  ?  And  the  birds :  he  knew 
them  as  do  few  ornithologists,  by  sight,  by 
sound,  by  little  ways  and  tricks  of  their  own, 
known  only  to  themselves  and  him.  The 
white-throat  sparrow,  with  its  sweet,  far- 
reaching  chant;  the  hermit -thrush,  with  its 
chime  of  bells,  in  the  calm  summer  twilight; 
the  vesper-sparrow,  that  ran  before  him  as  he 
crossed  the  meadow,  or  sang  for  hours,  as  he 
fished  the  stream,  its  unvarying  but  scarcely 
monotonous  little  strain;  the  cedar-bird,  with 
its  smooth  brown  coat  of  Quaker  simplicity, 
and  speech  as  brief  and  simple  as  Quaker  yea 
or  nay;  the  winter -wren,  sending  out  his 
strange,  lovely,  liquid  warble  from  the  high, 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  1 19 

rocky  side  of  Cannon  Mountain ;  the  bluebird 
of  that  early  spring,  so  welcome  to  the  win 
ter-weary  dwellers  in  that  land  of  ice  and 
snow,  as  he 

"from  the  bluer  deeps 
Lets  fall  a  quick  prophetic  strain  " 

of  summer,  of  streams  freed  and  flowing  again, 
of  waking,  darting,  eager  fish — all  these  were 
friends,  familiar,  tried,  and  true  to  Fishin' Jim 
my.  The  cluck  and  coo  of  the  cuckoo,  the 
bubbling  song  of  bobolink  in  buff  and  black, 
the  watery  trill  of  the  stream-loving  swamp- 
sparrow,  the  whispered  whistle  of  the  stealthy, 
darkness -haunting  whippoorwill,  the  gurgle 
and  gargle  of  the  cow-bunting — he  knew  each 
and  all,  better  than  did  Audubon,  Nuttall,  or 
Wilson.  But  he  never  dreamed  that  even  the 
tiniest  of  his  little  favorites  bore  in  the  scien 
tific  world,  far  away  from  that  quiet  mountain 
nest,  such  names  as  Troglodytus  hiemalis  or 
Melospiza  palustris.  He  could  tell  you,  too, 
of  strange,  shy  creatures  rarely  seen  except  by 
the  early  -  rising,  late -fishing  angler,  in  quiet, 
lonesome  places :  the  otter,  muskrat,  and  mink 
of  ponds  and  lakes — rival  fishers,  who  bore  off 


I2O  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

prey  sometimes  from  under  his  very  eyes — 
field-mice  in  meadow  and  pasture,  blind,  bur 
rowing  moles,  prickly  hedgehogs,  brown  hares, 
and  social,  curious  squirrels. 

Sometimes  he  saw  deer,  in  the  early  morn 
ing  or  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  as  they  came 
to  drink  at  the  lake  shore,  and  looked  at  him 
with  big,  soft  eyes  not  unlike  his  own.  Some 
times  a  shaggy  bear  trotted  across  his  path  and 
hid  himself  in  the  forest,  or  a  sharp-eared  fox 
ran  barking  through  the  bushes.  He  loved  to 
tell  of  these  things  to  us  who  cared  to  listen, 
and  I  still  seem  to  hear  his  voice  saying,  in 
hushed  tones,  after  a  story  of  woodland  sight 
or  sound:  "  Nobody  don't  see 'em  but  fisher 
men.  Nobody  don't  hear  'em  but  fishermen." 

But  it  was  of  another  kind  of  knowledge  he 
oftenest  spoke,  and  of  which  I  shall  try  to  tell 
you  in  his  own  words,  as  nearly  as  possible. 

First  let  me  say  that  if  there  should  seem  to 
be  the  faintest  tinge  of  irreverence  in  aught  I 
write,  I  tell  my  story  badly.  There  was  no 
irreverence  in  Fishin'  Jimmy.  He  professed 
a  deep  and  profound  veneration  for  all  things 
spiritual  and  heavenly ;  but  it  was  the  venera- 


FISHIN' JIMMY.  121 

tion  of  a  little  child,  mingled  as  is  that  child's 
with  perfect  confidence  and  utter  frankness. 
And  he  used  the  dialect  of  the  country  in 
which  he  lived. 

' '  As  I  was  tellin'  ye, "  he  said, ' '  I  allers  loved 
fishin',  an'  knowed  'twas  the  best  thing  in  the 
hull  airth;  I  knowed  it  larnt  ye  more  about 
creeters  an'  yarbs  an'  stuns  an'  water  than  books 
could  tell  ye ;  I  knowed  it  made  folks  patient- 
er  an'  common-senser  an'  weather-wiser,  an' 
cuter  gen'ally ;  gin 'em  more  fac'lty  than  all  the 
school  larnin'  in  creation.  I  knowed  it  was 
more  fillin'than  vittles,  more  rousin'than  whis 
key,  more  soothin'  than  lodlum ;  I  knowed  it 
cooled  ye  off  when  ye  was  het,  an'  het  ye  when 
ye  was  cold ;  I  knowed  all  that,  o'  course — any 
fool  knows  it.  But— will  ye  bleeve  it  ?— I  was 
more'n  twenty-one  year  old,  a  man  growed, 
'fore  I  foun'  out  why  'twas  that  away.  Father 
an'  mother  was  Christian  folks,  good  out-an'- 
out  Calv'nist  Baptists  from  over  East'n  way. 
They  fetched  me  up  right,  made  me  go  to 
meetin'  an'  read  a  chapter  every  Sunday,  an' 
say  a  hymn  Sat'day  night  a'ter  washin' ;  an'  I 
useter  say  my  prayers  mos'  nights.  I  wa'n't  a 


122  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

bad  boy  as  boys  go.  But  nobody  thought  o' 
tellin'  me  the  one  thing,  jest  the  one  single 
thing  that'd  ha'  made  all  the  diffunce.  I  know- 
ed  about  God,  an'  how  he  made  me  an'  made 
the  airth,  an'  everything;  an'  once  I  got  thinkin' 
about  that,  an'  I  asked  my  father  if  God  made 
the  fishes.  He  said  course  he  did,  the  sea  an' 
all  that  in 'em  is;  but  somehow  that  didn't 
seem  to  mean  nothin'  much  to  me,  an'  I  lost  my 
int'rist  agin.  An'  I  read  the  Scripter  account  o' 
Jonah  an'  the  big  fish,  an'  all  that  in  Job  about 
pullin'  out  levi'thing  with  a  hook  an'  stickin' 
fish-spears  in  his  head,  an'  some  parts  in  them 
queer  books  nigh  the  end  o'  the  ole  Test'ment 
about  fish-ponds  an'  fish-gates  an'  fish-pools, 
an' how  the  fishers  shall  1'ment — everything  I 
could  pick  out  about  fishin'  an'  sech ;  but  it 
didn't  come  home  to  me;  'twa'n't  my  kind  o' 
fishin',  an'  I  didn't  seem  ter  sense  it. 

"But  one  day  —  it's  more'n  forty  year  ago 
now,  but  I  rec'lect  it  same's  'twas  yest'day,  an' 
I  shall  rec'lect  it  forty  thousand  year  from  now 
if  I'm  round,  an'  I  guess  I  shall  be — I  heerd — 
suthin' — diffunt.  I  was  down  in  the  village 
one  Sunday;  it  wa'n't  very  good  fishin' — the 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  123 

streams  was  too  full;  an' I  thought  I'd  jest  look 
into  the  meetin'-house  's  I  went  by.  'Twas  the 
ole  union  meetin'-house,  ye  know,  an' they 
hadn't  got  no  reg'lar  s'pply,  an'  ye  never 
knowed  what  kind  ye'd  hear,  so  'twas  kind  o' 
excitin'. 

"Twas  late,  most 'leven  o'clock,  an' the 
sarm'n  had  begun.  There  was  a  strange  man 
a-preachin',  some  one  from  over  to  the  hotel. 
I  never  heerd  his  name,  I  never  seed  him  from 
that  day  to  this ;  but  I  knowed  his  face.  Queer 
enough,  I'd  seed  him  a-fishin'.  I  never  knowed 
he  was  a  min'ster;  he  didn't  look  like  one. 
He  went  about  like  a  real  fisherman,  with  ole 
clo'es,  an'  an  ole  hat  with  hooks  stuck  in  it, 
an'  big  rubber  boots,  an'  he  fished,  reely  fished, 
I  mean — ketched  'em.  I  guess  'twas  that  made 
me  liss'n  a  leetle  sharper  'n  us'al,  for  I  never 
seed  a  fishin'-min'ster  afore.  Elder  Jacks'n,  he 
said  'twas  a  sinf'l  waste  o'  time;  an'  ole  Parson 
Loomis,  he'd  an  idee  it  was  cruel  an'  onmarci- 
ful ;  so  I  thought  I'd  jest  see  what  this  man  'd 
preach  about,  an'  I  settled  down  to  liss'n  to 
the  sarm'n. 

"But  there  wa'n't  no  sarm'n,  not  what  I'd 


124  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

been  raised  to  think  was  the  on'y  true  kind. 
There  wa'n't  no  heads,  no  fustlys  nor  sec'nd- 
lys,  nor  fm'ly  bruthrins,  but  the  fust  thing  I 
knowed  I  was  hearin'  a  story,  an'  'twas  a  fish- 
in' story.  'Twas  about  Some  One — I  hadn't 
the  least  idee  then  who  'twas,  an'  how  much 
it  all  meant — Some  One  that  was  dreffle  fond 
o'  fishin'  and  fishermen,  Some  One  that  sot 
everythin'  by  the  water,  an'  useter  go  along  by 
the  lakes  an'  ponds,  an'  sail  on  'em,  an'  talk 
with  the  men  that  was  fishin'.  An'  how  the 
fishermen  all  liked  him,  an'  asked  his  'dvice, 
an'  done  jest 's  he  telled  'em  about  the  likeliest 
places  to  fish  ;  an'  how  they  allers  ketched 
more  for  mindin'  him;  an'  how  when  he  was 
a-preachin'  he  wouldn't  go  into  a  big  meetin'- 
house  an'  talk  to  rich  folks  all  slicked  up,  but 
he'd  jest  go  out  in  a  fishin'-boat  an'  ask  the 
men  to  shove  out  a  mite,  an'  he'd  talk  to  the 
folks  on  shore,  the  fishin'  folks,  an'  their  wives, 
an'  the  boys  an'  gals  playin'  on  the  shore.  An' 
then,  best  o'  everythin',  he  telled  how  when 
he  was  a-choosin'  the  men  to  go  about  with 
him  an'  help  him,  an'  larn  his  ways,  so's  to 
come  a'ter  him,  he  fust  o'  all  picked  out  the 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  125 

men  he'd  seen  every  day  fishin';  an'  mebbe 
fished  with  hisself,  for  he  knowed  'em,  an 
knowed  he  could  trust  'em. 

"An' then  he  telled  us  about  the  day  when 
this  preacher  come  along  by  the  lake — a  dreffle 
sightly  place,  this  min'ster  said;  he'd  seed  it 
hisself  when  he  was  trav'lin'  in  them  coun 
tries — an' come  acrost  two  men  he  knowed 
well ;  they  was  brothers,  an'  they  was  a-fishin'. 
An'  he  jest  asked  'em,  in  his  pleasant -spoken, 
frien'ly  way — there  wa'n't  never  sech  a  draw- 
in',  takin',  lovin'  way  with  any  one  afore  as 
this  man  had,  the  minister  said — he  jest  asked 
'em  to  come  along  with  him  ;  an'  they  lay 
down  their  poles  an'  their  lines  an'  everythin', 
an'  jined  him.  An'  then  he  come  along  a  spell 
farther,  an'  he  see  two  boys  out  with  their  ole 
father,  an'  they  was  settin'  in  a  boat  an'  fixin' 
up  their  tackle,  an'  he  asked  'em  if  they'd  jine 
him  too,  an'  they  jest  dropped  all  their  things, 
an'  left  the  ole  man  with  the  boat  an'  the  fish 
an'  the  bait,  an'  follered  the  preacher.  I  don't 
tell  it  very  good.  I've  read  it  an'  read  it  sence 
that,  but  I  want  to  make  ye  see  how  it  sound 
ed  to  me,  how  I  took  it,  as  the  min'ster  telled 


126  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

it  that  summer  day  in  Francony  meetin'.  Ye 
see  I'd  no  idee  who  the  story  was  about,  the 
man  put  it  so  plain,  in  common  kind  o'  talk, 
without  any  come-to-passes  an'  whuffers  an' 
thuffers,  an'  1  never  conceited  'twas  a  Bible 
narr'tive. 

"  An'  so  fust  thing  I  knowed  I  says  to  my 
self,  '  That's  the  kind  o'  teacher  I  want.  If  I 
could  come  acrost  a  man  like  that,  I'd  jest  fol- 
ler  hjm  too,  through  thick  an'  thin.'  Well,  I 
can't  put  the  rest  on  it  into  talk  very  good; 
'tain't  jest  the  kind  o'  thing  to  speak  on  'fore 
folks,  even  sech  good  friends  as  you.  I  ain't 
the  sort  to  go  back  on  my  word — fishermen 
ain't,  ye  know — an' what  I'd  said  to  myself, 
'fore  I  knowed  who  I  was  bindin'  myself  to, 
I  stuck  to  a'terwards  when  I  knowed  all  about 
him.  For  'tain't  for  me  to  tell  ye,  who've  got 
so  much  more  larnin'  than  me,  that  there  was 
a  dreffle  lot  more  to  that  story  than  the  fishin' 
part.  That  lovin',  givin'  up,  sufferin',  dyin' 
part,  ye  know  it  all  yerself,  an'  I  can't  kinder 
say  much  on  it,  'cept  when  I'm  jest  all  by  my 
self,  or — 'long  o'  him. 

"That  a'ternoon  I  took  my  ole  Bible  that  I 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  127 

hadn't  read  much  sence  I  growed  up,  an'  I 
went  out  into  the  woods  'long  the  river,  an' 
'stid  o'  fishin'  I  jest  sot  down  an'  read  that  hull 
story.  Now  ye  know  it  yerself  by  heart,  an' 
ye've  knowed  it  all  yer  born  days,  so  ye  can't 
begin  to  tell  how  new  an'  'stonishin'  'twas  to 
me,  an'  how  findin'  so  much  fishin'  in  it  kinder 
helped  me  unnerstan'  an'  bleeve  it  every  mite, 
an'  take  it  right  hum  to  me  to  foller  an'  live  up 
to  's  long  's  I  live  an'  breathe.  Did  j'ever  think 
on  it,  reely  ?  I  tell  ye,  his  r'liging's  a  fishin' 
r'liging  all  through.  His  friends  was  fishin'- 
folks;  his  pulpit  was  a  fishin'-boat,  or  the  shore 
o'  the  lake ;  he  loved  the  ponds  an'  streams ;  an' 
when  his  d'sciples  went  out  fishin',  if  he  didn't 
go  hisself  with  'em  he'd  go  a'ter  'em,  walkin' 
on  the  water,  to  cheer  'em  up  an'  comfort  'em. 

"An'  he  was  allers  round  the  water;  for  the 
story'll  say, ' he  come  to  the  sea-shore,'  or  '  he 
begun  to  teach  by  the  sea-side, '  or,  agin,  '  he 
entered  into  a  boat,'  an'  '  he  was  in  the  stern  o' 
the  boat,  asleep.' 

"An' he  used  fish  in  his  mir'cles.  He  fed 
that  crowd  o'  folks  on  fish  when  they  was  hun 
gry,  bought  'em  from  a  little  chap  on  the  shore. 


128  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

I've  oft'n  thought  how  dreffle  tickled  that  boy 
must  'a'  been  to  have  him  take  them  fish.  Meb- 
be  they  wa'n't  nothin'  but  shiners,  but  the  fust 
the  little  feller'd  ever  ketched,  an'  boys  set  a 
heap  on  their  fust  ketch.  He  was  dreffle  good 
to  child'en,  ye  know.  An' who'd  he  come  to 
a'ter  he'd  died  an'  ris  agin  ?  Why,  he  come 
down  to  the  shore  'fore  daylight,  an'  looked 
off  over  the  pond  to  where  his  ole  frien's  was 
a-fishin'.  Ye  see  they'd  gone  out  jest  to  quiet 
their  minds  an' keep  up  their  sperrits;  ther's 
nothin'  like  fishin'  for  that,  ye  know,  an'  they'd 
been  in  a  heap  o'  trubble.  When  they  was 
settin'  up  the  night  afore,  worryin'  an'  won- 
d'rin'  an'  s'misin'  what  was  goin'  ter  become  on 
'em  without  their  master,  Peter'd  got  kinder 
desprit,  an'  he  up  an'  says,  in  his  quick  way, 
says  he,  'Anyway, /'m  goin' a -fishin'.'  An' 
they  all  see  the  sense  on  it — any  fisherman 
would  —  an' they  says,  says  they,  'We'll  go 
'long  too.'  But  they  didn't  ketch  anythin'.  I 
suppose  they  couldn't  fix  their  minds  on  it, 
an'  everythin'  went  wrong  like.  But  when 
mornin'  come  creepin'  up  over  the  mountings, 
fust  thin'  they  knowed  they  see  him  on  the 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  129 

bank,  an'  he  called  out  to 'em  to  know  if  they'd 
ketched  anythin'.  The  water  jest  run  down 
my  cheeks  when  I  heerd  the  min'ster  tell  that, 
an'  it  kinder  makes  my  eyes  wet  every  time  I 
think  on't.  For 't  seems 's  if  it  might  'a'  been 
me  in  that  boat,  who  heern  that  v'ice  I  loved 
so  dreffle  well,  speak  up  agin  so  nat'ral  from 
the  bank  there.  An'  he  eat  some  o'  their  fish ! 
O'  course  he  done  it  to  set  their  minds  easy, 
to  show  'em  he  wa'n't  quite  a  sperrit  yit,  but 
jest  their  own  ole  frien'  who'd  been  out  in 
the  boat  with  'em  so  many,  many  times.  But 
seems  to  me,  jest  the  fac'  he  done  it  kinder 
makes  fish  an'  fishin'  diffunt  from  any  other 
thing  in  the  hull  airth.  I  tell  ye  them  four 
books  that  gin  his  story  is  chock  full  o'  things 
that  go  right  to  the  heart  o'  fishermen :  Nets 
an'  hooks  an'  boats,  an'  the  shores  an'  the  sea 
an' the  mountings,  Peter's  fishin'-coat,  lilies  an' 
sparrers  an'  grass  o'  the  fields,  an'  all  about  the 
evenin'  sky  bein'  red  or  lowerin',  an'  fair  or 
foul  weather. 

"It's  an  out-doors,  woodsy,  country  story, 
'sides  bein'  the  heav'nliest  one  that  was  ever 
telled.  I  read  the  hull  Bible,  as  a  duty,  ye 

9 


130  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

know.  I  read  the  epis'les,  but  somehow  they 
don't  come  home  to  me.  Paul  was  a  great 
man,  a  dreffle  smart  scholar,  but  he  was  raised 
in  the  city,  I  guess,  an'  when  I  go  from  the 
gospils  into  Paul's  writin's  it's  like  goin'  from 
the  woods  an'  hills  an'  streams  o'  Francony  into 
the  streets  of  a  big  city  like  Concord  or  Man- 
ch'ster." 

The  old  man  did  not  say  much  of  his  after 
life  and  the  fruits  of  this  strange  conversion, 
but  his  neighbors  told  us  a  great  deal.  They 
spoke  of  his  unselfishness,  his  charity,  his  kind 
ly  deeds;  told  of  his  visiting  the  poor  and  un 
happy,  nursing  the  sick.  They  said  the  little 
children  loved  him,  and  every  one  in  the  vil 
lage  and  for  miles  around  trusted  and  leaned 
upon  Fishin'  Jimmy.  He  taught  the  boys  to 
fish,  sometimes  the  girls  too;  and  while  learn 
ing  to  cast  and  strike,  to  whip  the  stream,  they 
drank  in  knowledge  of  higher  things,  and  came 
to  know  and  love  Jimmy's  "fishin'  r'liging." 
I  remember  they  told  me  of  a  little  French- 
Canadian  girl,  a  poor,  wretched  waif,  whose 
mother,  an  unknown  tramp,  had  fallen  dead 
in  the  road  near  the  village.  The  child,  an 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  131 

untamed  little  heathen,  was  found  clinging  to 
her  mother's  body  in  an  agony  of  grief  and 
rage,  and  fought  like  a  tiger  when  they  tried 
to  take  her  away.  A  boy  in  the  little  group 
attracted  to  the  spot  ran  away,  with  a  child's 
faith  in  his  old  friend,  to  summon  Fishin' Jim 
my.  He  came  quickly,  lifted  the  little  savage 
tenderly,  and  carried  her  away. 

No  one  witnessed  the  taming  process,  but 
in  a  day  or  two  the  pair  were  seen  together  on 
the  margin  of  Black  Brook,  each  with  a  fish- 
pole.  Her  dark  face  was  bright  with  interest 
and  excitement  as  she  took  her  first  lesson  in 
the  art  of  angling.  She  jabbered  and  chattered 
in  her  odd  patois,  he  answered  in  broadest 
New  England  dialect,  but  the  two  quite  un 
derstood  each  other,  and  though  Jimmy  said 
afterwards  that  it  was  ' '  dreffle  to  hear  her  call 
the  fish  pois'n',"  they  were  soon  great  friends 
and  comrades.  For  weeks  he  kept  and  cared 
for  the  child,  and  when  she  left  him  for  a  good 
home  in  Bethlehem,  one  would  scarcely  have 
recognized  in  the  gentle,  affectionate  girl  the 
wild  creature  of  the  past.  Though  often  ques 
tioned  as  to  the  means  used  to  effect  thi$ 


132  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

change,  Jimmy's  explanation  seemed  rather 
vague  and  unsatisfactory.  "  Twas  fishin'  done 
it,"  he  said;  "on'y  fishin';  it  allers  works. 
The  Christian  r'liging  itself  had  to  begin  with 
fishin',  ye  know." 

But  one  thing  troubled  Fishin' Jimmy.  He 
wanted  to  be  a  "fisher  of  men."  That  was 
what  the  Great  Teacher  had  promised  he 
would  make  the  fishermen  who  left  their 
boats  to  follow  him.  What  strange,  literal 
meaning  he  attached  to  the  terms  we  could 
not  tell.  In  vain  we — especially  the  boys, 
whose  young  hearts  had  gone  out  in  warm 
affection  to  the  old  man — tried  to  show  him 
that  he  was,  by  his  efforts  to  do  good  and 
make  others  better  and  happier,  fulfilling  the 
Lord's  directions.  He  could  not  understand  it 
so.  "I  allers  try  to  think,"  he  said,  "that 
'twas  me  in  that  boat  when  he  come  along.  I 
make  bleeve  that  it  was  out  on  Streeter's  Pond, 
an'  I  was  settin'  in  the  boat,  fixin'  my  lan'in'- 
net,  when  I  see  him  on  the  shore.  I  think 
mebbe  I'm  that  James — for  that's  my  given 
name,  ye  know,  though  they  allers  call  me 
Jimmy — an' then  I  hear  him  callin'  me,  *  James, 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  133 

James!'  I  can  hear  him  jest's  plain  sometimes, 
when  the  wind's  blowin'  in  the  trees,  an'  I  jest 
ache  to  up  an'  foller  him.  But,  says  he,  '  I'll 
make  ye  a  fisher  o'  men,'  an'  he  ain't  done  it. 
I'm  waitin';  mebbe  he'll  larn  me  some  day." 

He  was  fond  of  all  living  creatures,  merciful 
to  all.  But  his  love  for  our  dog  Dash  became 
a  passion,  for  Dash  was  an  angler.  Who  that 
ever  saw  him  sitting  in  the  boat  beside  his 
master,  watching  with  eager  eye,  and  whole 
body  trembling  with  excitement,  the  line  as  it 
was  cast,  the  flies  as  they  touched  the  surface 
— who  can  forget  old  Dash  ?  His  fierce  ex 
citement  at  rise  of  trout,  the  efforts  at  self-re 
straint,  the  disappointment  if  the  prey  escaped, 
the  wild  exultation  if  it  was  captured,  how 
plainly  —  he  who  runs  might  read  —  were 
shown  these  emotions  in  eye,  in  ear,  in  tail, 
in  whole  quivering  body!  What  wonder  that 
it  all  went  straight  to  the  fisher's  heart  of  Jim 
my!  "I  never  knowed  afore  they  could  be 
Christians,"  he  said,  looking,  with  tears  in  his 
soft,  keen  eyes,  at  the  every -day  scene,  and 
with  no  faintest  thought  of  irreverence.  "I 
never  knowed  it,  but  I'd  give  a  stiffikit  o' 


1^4  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

membership  in  the  orthodoxest  church  goin' 
to  that  dog  there." 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  as  years 
went  on  Jimmy  came  to  know  many  "  fishin'- 
min'sters,"  for  there  are  many  of  that  ilk  who 
love  our  mountain  country,  and  seek  it  yearly. 
All  these  knew  and  loved  the  old  man.  And 
there  were  others  who  had  wandered  by  that 
Sea  of  Galilee,  and  fished  in  the  waters  of  the 
Holy  Land,  and  with  them  Fishin'  Jimmy  dear 
ly  loved  to  talk.  But  his  wonder  was  never- 
ending  that  in  the  scheme  of  evangelizing  the 
world  more  use  was  not  made  of  the  "fishin' 
side  "  of  the  story.  "  Hain't  they  ever  tried  it 
on  them  poor  heathen  ?"  he  would  ask  earnest 
ly  of  some  clerical  angler  casting  a  fly  upon 
the  clear  water  of  pond  or  brook.  "  I  should 
think  'twould  'a'  ben  the  fust  thing  they'd  done. 
Fishin'  fust,  an'  r'liging  's  sure  to  foller.  An' 
it's  so  easy ;  for  heathen  mostly  r'sides  on  isl 
ands,  don't  they  ?  So  ther's  plenty  o'  water, 
an'  o'  course  ther's  fishin' ;  an'  oncet  gin  'em 
poles  an'  git  'em  to  work,  an'  they're  out  o' 
mischief  for  that  day.  They'd  like  it  better'n 
cannib'ling,  or  cuttin'  out  idles,  or  scratchin' 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  135 

picters  all  over  theirselves,  an'  bimeby  —  not 
too  suddent,  ye  know,  to  scare  'em — ye  could 
begin  on  that  story,  an'  they  couldn't  stan'  that, 
not  a  heathen  on  'em.  Won't  ye  speak  to  the 
'Merican  Board  about  it,  an'  sen'  out  a  few  fish- 
in'  mishneries,  with  poles  an'  lines  an'  tackle 
gen'ally  ?  I've  tried  it  on  dreffle  bad  folks,  an' 
it  allers  done  'em  good.  But " — so  almost  all  his 
simple  talk  ended — "I  wish  I  could  begin  to 
be  a  fisher  o'  men ;  I'm  gettin'  on  now — I'm  nigh 
seventy — an'  I  ain't  got  much  time,  ye  see." 

One  afternoon  in  July  there  came  over  Fran- 
conia  Notch  one  of  those  strangely  sudden 
tempests  which  sometimes  visit  that  mountain 
country.  It  had  been  warm  that  day,  unusual 
ly  warm  for  that  refreshingly  cool  spot;  but 
suddenly  the  sky  grew  dark  and  darker,  almost 
to  blackness;  there  was  roll  of  thunder  and 
flash  of  lightning,  and  then  poured  down  the 
rain — rain  at  first,  but  soon  hail  in  large  frozen 
bullets,  which  fiercely  pelted  any  who  vent 
ured  out-doors,  rattled  against  the  windows 
of  the  Profile  House  with  sharp  cracks  like 
sounds  of  musketry,  and  lay  upon  the  piazza  in 
heaps  like  snow.  And  in  the  midst  of  the 


Ij6  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

wild  storm  it  was  remembered  that  two  boys, 
guests  at  the  hotel,  had  gone  up  Mount  Lafay 
ette  alone  that  day.  They  were  young  boys, 
unused  to  mountain  climbing,  and  their  friends 
were  anxious.  It  was  found  that  Dash  had 
followed  them ;  and  just  as  some  one  was  to 
be  sent  in  search  of  them,  a  boy  from  the  sta 
bles  brought  the  information  that  Fishin'  Jim 
my  had  started  up  the  mountain  after  them  as 
the  storm  broke.  ''Said  if  he  couldn't  be  a 
fisher  o'  men,  mebbe  he  knowed  'nuff  to  ketch 
boys,"  went  on  our  informant,  seeing  nothing 
more  in  the  speech,  full  of  pathetic  meaning 
to  us  who  knew  him,  than  the  idle  talk  of 
one  whom  many  considered  "lackinV  Jim 
my  was  old  now,  and  had  of  late  grown  very 
feeble,  and  we  did  not  like  to  think  of  him  out 
in  that  wild  storm.  And  now  suddenly  the 
lost  boys  themselves  appeared  through  the 
opening  in  the  woods  opposite  the  house,  and 
ran  in  through  the  hail,  now  falling  more  qui 
etly.  They  were  wet,  but  no  worse,  apparent 
ly,  for  their  adventure,  though  full  of  contrition 
and  distress  at  having  lost  sight  of  the  dog. 
He  had  rushed  off  into  the  woods  some  hours 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  137 

before,  after  a  rabbit  or  hedgehog,  and  had  nev 
er  returned;  nor  had  they  seen  Fishin'  Jimmy. 
As  hours  went  by,  and  the  old  man  did  not 
return,  a  search  party  was  sent  out,  and  guides 
familiar  with  all  the  mountain  paths  went  up 
Lafayette  to  seek  for  him.  It  was  nearly  night 
when  they  at  last  found  him,  and  the  grand 
old  mountains  had  put  on  those  robes  of  royal 
purple  which  they  sometimes  assume  at  even 
tide.  At  the  foot  of  a  mass  of  rock,  which 
looked  like  amethyst  or  wine-red  agate  in  that 
marvellous  evening  light,  the  old  man  was  ly 
ing,  and  Dash  was  with  him.  From  the  few 
faint  words  Jimmy  could  then  gasp  out  the 
truth  was  gathered.  He  had  missed  the  boys, 
leaving  the  path  by  which  they  had  returned, 
and  while  stumbling  along  in  search  of  them, 
feeble  and  weary,  he  had  heard  far  below  a 
sound  of  distress.  Looking  down  over  a  steep 
rocky  ledge,  he  had  seen  his  friend  and  fish 
ing  comrade,  old  Dash,  in  sore  trouble.  Poor 
Dash !  He  never  dreamed  of  harming  his  old 
friend,  for  he  had  a  kind  heart.  But  he  was  a 
sad  coward  in  some  matters,  and  a  very  baby 
when  frightened  and  away  from  master  and 


138  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

friends.  So  I  fear  he  may  have  assumed  the 
role  of  wounded  sufferer  when  in  reality  he 
was  but  scared  and  lonesome.  He  never 
owned  this  afterwards,  and  you  may  be  sure 
we  never  let  him  know  by  word  or  look  the 
evil  he  had  done.  Jimmy  saw  him  holding 
up  one  paw  helplessly,  and  looking  at  him 
with  wistful,  imploring  brown  eyes;  heard 
his  pitiful,  whimpering  cry  for  aid,  and  never 
doubted  his  great  distress  and  peril.  Was 
Dash  not  a  fisherman  ?  And  fishermen,  in 
Fishin'  Jimmy's  category,  were  always  true 
and  trusty.  So  the  old  man,  without  a  second's 
hesitation,  started  down  the  steep,  smooth  de 
cline  to  the  rescue  of  his  friend. 

We  do  not  know  just  how  or  where  in  that 
terrible  descent  he  fell.  To  us  who  afterwards 
saw  the  spot,  and  thought  of  the  weak  old 
man,  chilled  by  the  storm,  exhausted  by  his 
exertions,  and  yet  clambering  down  that  pre 
cipitous  cliff,  made  more  slippery  and  treach 
erous  by  the  sleet  and  hail  still  falling,  it  seemed 
impossible  that  he  could  have  kept  a  foothold 
for  an  instant.  Nor  am  I  sure  that  he  expected 
to  save  himself  and  Dash  too.  But  he  tried. 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  1 39 

He  was  sadly  hurt.     I  will  not  tell  you  of 
that. 

Looking  out  from  the  hotel  windows  through 
the  gathering  darkness,  we  who  loved  him — 
it  was  not  a  small  group — saw  a  sorrowful 
sight.  Flickering  lights  thrown  by  the  lan 
terns  of  the  guides  came  through  the  woods. 
Across  the  road,  slowly,  carefully,  came  strong 
men,  bearing  on  a  rough,  hastily  made  litter 
of  boughs  the  dear  old  man.  All  that  could 
have  been  done  for  the  most  distinguished 
guest,  for  the  dearest,  best-beloved  friend,  was 
done  for  the  gentle  fisherman.  We,  his  friends, 
and  proud  to  style  ourselves  thus,  were  of  dif 
ferent,  widely  separated  lands,  greatly  varying 
creeds.  Some  were  nearly  as  old  as  the  dying 
man,  some  in  the  prime  of  manhood.  There 
were  youths  and  maidens  and  little  children; 
but  through  the  night  we  watched  together. 
The  old  Roman  bishop,  whose  calm,  benign 
face  we  all  know  and  love;  the  Churchman, 
ascetic  in  faith,  but  with  the  kindest,  most  in 
dulgent  heart  when  one  finds  it;  the  gentle 
old  Quakeress,  with  placid,  unwrinkled  brow 
and  silvery  hair  ;  Presbyterian,  Methodist,  and 


140  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

Baptist — we  were  all  one  that  night.  The 
old  angler  did  not  suffer — we  were  so  glad 
of  that!  But  he  did  not  appear  to  know  us, 
and  his  talk  seemed  strange.  It  rambled  on 
quietly,  softly,  like  one  of  his  own  mountain 
brooks,  babbling  of  green  fields,  of  sunny 
summer  days,  of  his  favorite  sport,  and  ah,  of 
other  things.  But  he  was  not  speaking  to  us. 
A  sudden,  awed  hush  and  thrill  came  over  us 
as,  bending  to  catch  the  low  words,  we  all  at 
once  understood  what  only  the  bishop  put 
into  words  as  he  said,  half  to  himself,  in  a  sud 
den,  quick,  broken  whisper,  "God  bless  the 
man,  he's  talking  to  his  Master!" 

' '  Yes,  sir,  that's  so, "  went  on  the  quiet  voice ; 
"  'twas  on'y  a  dog,  sure  'nough;  'twa'n't  even 
a  boy,  as  ye  say,  an'  ye  ast  me  to  be  a  fisher 
o'  men.  But  I  hain't  had  no  chance  for  that, 
somehow;  mebbe  I  wa'n't  fit  for't.  I'm  on'y 
jest  a  poor  old  fisherman — Fishin'  Jimmy,  ye 
know,  sir.  Ye  useter  call  me  James — no  one 
else  ever  done  it.  On'y  a  dog  ?  But  he  wa'n't 
jest  a  common  dog,  sir;  he  was  a  fishin'-dog. 
I  never  seed  a  man  love  fishin'  mor'n  Dash." 
The  dog  was  in  the  room,  and  heard  his  name. 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  141 

Stealing  to  the  bedside,  he  put  a  cold  nose  into 
the  cold  hand  of  his  old  friend,  and  no  one  had 
the  heart  to  take  him  away.  The  touch  turned 
the  current  of  the  old  man's  talk  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  he  was  fishing  again  with  his  dog 
friend.  "See  'em  break,  Dashy!  See  'em 
break !  Lots  on  'em  to-day,  ain't  they  ?  Keep 
still,  there's  a  good  dog,  while  I  put  on  a  dif- 
funt  fly.  Don't  ye  see  they're  jumpin'  at  them 
gnats  ?  Ain't  the  water  jest  'live  with  'em  ? 
Ain't  it  shinin'  an'  clear  an' — "  The  voice 
faltered  an  instant,  then  went  on:  "Yes,  sir, 
I'm  comin' — I'm  glad,  dreffle  glad  to  come. 
Don't  mind  'bout  my  leavin'  my  fishin';  do  ye 
think  I  care  'bout  that  ?  I'll  jest  lay  down  my 
pole  ahin'  the  alders  here,  an'  put  my  lan'in'- 
net  on  the  stuns,  with  my  flies  an'  tackle— the 
boys  '11  like  'em,  ye  know — an'  I'll  be  right 
along. 

"I  mos'  knowed  ye  was  on'y  a-tryin'  me 
when  ye  said  that  'bout  how  I  hadn't  been 
a  fisher  o'  men,  nor  even  boys,  on'y  a  dog. 
Twas  a — fishin'-dog — ye  know — an'  ye  was 
allers  dreffle  good  to  fishermen — dreffle  good 
to  everybody — died — for — 'em,  didn't  ye  ? 


142  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

"  Please  wait — on — the — bank  there  a  min- 
nit;  I'm  comin' 'crost.  Water's  pretty — cold 
this — spring — an'  the  stream's  risin' — but — I — 
can — do  it — don't  ye  mind — 'bout — me,  sir. 
I'll — get — acrost."  Once  more  the  voice  ceas 
ed,  and  we  thought  we  should  not  hear  it 
again  this  side  that  stream. 

But  suddenly  a  strange  light  came  over  the 
thin  face,  the  soft  gray  eyes  opened  wide,  and 
he  cried  out  with  the  strong  voice  we  had  so 
often  heard  come  ringing  out  to  us  across  the 
mountain  streams,  above  the  sound  of  their 
rushing:  "Here  I  be,  sir!  It's  Fishin' Jimmy, 
ye  know,  from  Francony  way ;  him  ye  useter 
call  James  when  ye  come  'long  the  shore  o'  the 
pond  an'  I  was  a-fishin'.  I  heern  ye  agin,  jest 
now —  an'  I —  straightway —  f 'sook — my —  nets 
— an' — follered — " 

Had  the  voice  ceased  utterly  ?  No ;  we  could 
catch  faint,  low  murmurs,  and  the  lips  still 
moved.  But  the  words  were  not  for  us;  and 
we  did  not  know  when  he  reached  the  other 
bank. 


V. 

BUTTERNEGGS. 

' '  /  had  a  sister 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devoured?'' 

Twelfth  Night. 


BUTTERNEGGS. 

SHE  was  a  woman  of  nearly  seventy,  I 
should  think ;  tall,  thin,  and  angular,  with 
strongly  marked  features  and  eyes  of  very  pale 
blue.  Her  hair,  still  dark,  though  streaked 
with  gray,  was  drawn  back  from  her  temples 
and  twisted  into  a  little  hard  knot  behind,  and 
she  wore  no  cap.  We  had  scarcely  exchanged 
greetings  before  her  eyes  fell  upon  my  modest 
bouquet. 

"  Butter neggs,  I  declare  for't!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  lively  interest ;  ' '  fust  I've  seed  this  seas'n ; 
mine  don't  show  a  speck  o'  blowth  yet,  an* 
mine's  gen'lly  fust.  Where'd  it  grow,  ma'am, 
'f  I  may  ask  ?" 

I  told  her  of  the  spot  near  Buttermilk  Falls 
where  we  had  found  it,  but  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  inform  her  that  we  had  gone 
there  in  search  of  the  plant  at  Jane's  sugges 
tion,  that  the  sight  of  it  might  prompt  the  old 
woman  to  tell  a  certain  tale.  I  begged  her  at 
once  to  accept  the  flowers,  which  she  did 
10 


146  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

with  evident  pleasure,  placing  the  homely  lit 
tle  nosegay  carefully  in  water.  For  a  vase  she 
used  a  curious  old  wineglass,  tall  and  quaint, 
far  more  desirable  in  my  eyes  than  a  garden 
full  of  the  common  yellow  flowers  it  held,  and 
I  bent  forward  eagerly  to  examine  it.  Aunt 
Loretty  seemed  to  regard  my  interest  as  whol 
ly  botanical  in  its  nature,  and  centred  upon 
her  beloved  Linaria  vulgaris,  and  I  at  once  rose 
in  her  estimation. 

"It's  a  sightly  posy,  ain't  it,  ma'am?"  she 
said;  "jest  about  the  likeliest  there  is,  I  guess. 
But  then  it's  heredit'ry  in  our  fam'ly,  so  o' 
course  I  like  it." 

"Hereditary!"  I  exclaimed,  forgetting  for  a 
moment  my  promise  to  take  things  quietly, 
showing  no  surprise  or  incredulity.  "  Butter- 
and-eggs  hereditary  in  your  family!" 

"Yes,  ma'am, 'tis;  leastways  the  settin'by't 
is.  All  the  Knappses  set  ev'rything  by  but- 
terneggs.  Ye  can't  be  a  Knapp — course  I  mean 
our  branch  o'  the  fam'ly — ye  can't  be  one  o' 
our  Knappses  an'  not  have  that  plant  with  its 
yeller  blooms  an'  little,  narrer,  whity- green 
leaves  for  yer  fav'rite.  The  Knappses  allers 


BUTTERNEGGS.  147 

held  it  so,  an'  they  allers  will  hold  it  so,  or 
they  won't  be  Knappses.  Didn't  I  never  tell 
ye,"  she  asked,  turning  to  my  companion, 
<(  'bout  my  sister,  an'  losin'  her,  an'  the  way  I 
come  to  find  her  ?" 

I  do  not  remember  just  how  Jane  evaded 
this  direct  question,  but  her  reply  served  the 
desired  purpose,  and  Aunt  Loretty  was  soon 
started  upon  her  wonderful  story. 

"My  father  was  Cap'n  Zenas  Knapp,  born 
right  here  in  Coscob.  He follered  the  sea;  an's 
there  warn't  much  sea  'round  here  to  foller, 
he  moved  down  Stonin'ton  way,  an  took  ter 
whalin'.  An'  bimeby  he  married  a  gal  down 
there,  S'liny  Ann  Beebe,  an'  he  lost  sight  an'  run 
o'  Coscob  an'  the  Knappses  for  a  long  spell. 
But  pa  was  a  Knapp  clear  through  'f  there 
ever  was  one;  the  very  Knappiest  Knapp, 
sotespeak,  o'  the  hull  tribe,  an'  that's  puttin'  it 
strong  'nough.  All  their  ways,  all  their  doin's, 
their  likin's  an'  dislikin's,  their  taketos  an'  their 
don't-taketos,  their  goods  an'  their  bads — he 
had  'em  all  hard.  An'  they  had  ways — the 
Knappses  had,  an'  they've  got  'em  still,  what's 
left  o'  the  fam'ly — the  waysiest  ways  !  Some 


148  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

folks  ain't  that  kind,  ye  know ;  they're  jest  like 
other  folks.  If  ye  met  'em  'way  from  hum  ye 
wouldn't  know  where  they  come  from  or 
whose  relations  they  was;  they  might  be 
Peckses  o'  Horseneck,  or  Noyses  o'  West'ly,  or 
Simsb'ry  Phelpses  ;  or  agin  they  might  be 
Smithses  o'  ary  place,  for  all  the  fam'ly  ways 
they'd  got.  But  our  folks,  the  hull  tribe  on 
'em,  was  tarred  with  the  same  stick,  's  ye 
might  say ;  ye'd  'a  knowed  'em  for  Knappses 
wherever  they  was — in  Coscob,  Stonin'ton,  or 
Chiny.  Frinstance,  for  one  thing,  they  was  all 
Congr'ation'l  in  religion;  they  allers  had  ben 
from  the  creation  o'  the  airth.  Some  folks 
might  say  to  that  that  there  wa'n't  no  Con 
gr'ation'l  meetin's  's  fur  back's  that.  Well,  1 
won't  be  too  sot;  mebbe  there  wa'n't;  but 'f 
that's  so,  then  there  wa'n't  no  Knappses ;  there 
couldn't  be  Knappses  an'  no  Congr'ation'lists. 
An'  they  all  bleeved  in  foreord' nation  an'  'lec 
tion.  They  was  made  so.  Ye  didn't  have  ter 
larn  it  to  'em ;  they  got  it  jest 's  they  got  teeth 
when  'twas  time ;  they  took  it  jest 's  they 
took  hoopin'- cough  an'  mumps  when  they 
was  'round.  They  didn't,  ary  one  on  'em, 


BUTTERNEGGS.  149 

need  the  cat'chism  to  larn  'em  'bout  'Whereby 
for 's  own  glory  He  hath  foreordained  whats'- 
ever  comes  to  pass,'  nor  to  tell  'em  't  '  He  out 
o'  His  mere  good  pleasure  from  all  etarnity 
'lected  some  to  everlastin'  life;'  they  knowed 
it  theirselves,  the  Knappses  did.  An'  they 
stuck  to  their  bleefs,  an'  would  'a'  stood  up  on 
the  Saybrook  platform  an'  ben  burnt  up  for 
'em,  like  John  Rogers  in  the  cat'chism,  sayin', 

'  What  though  this  carcass  smart  a  while, 
What  though  this  life  decay.' 

"An'  they  was  all  Whigs  in  pol'tics.  There 
wa'n't  never  a  Knapp — our  branch — who  vot 
ed  the  Dem'cratic  ticket.  They  took  that  too; 
no  need  for  their  pas  to  tell  'em ;  jest 's  soon  's 
a  boy  got  to  be  twenty-one,  an'  'lection  day 
come  round,  up  he  went  an'  voted  the  Whig 
tick't,  sayin'  nothin'  to  nobody.  An'  so  'twas 
in  ev'rything.  They  had  ways  o'  their  own. 
It  come  in  ev'n  down  to  readin'  the  Scripters. 
For  ev'ry  Knapp  't  ever  I  see  p'ferred  the  Book 
o'  Rev'lations  to  ary  other  part  o'  the  Bible. 
They  liked  it  all,  o'  course,  for  they  was  a  pi 
ous  breed,  an'  knowed  't  all  Scripter's  give  by 
insp'ration,  an's  prof 't'ble,  an'  so  forth ;  but  for 


150  SEVEN  DREAMERS. 

stiddy,  ev'ry-day  readin'  give  'em  Rev'lations. 
An'  there  was  lots  o'  other  little  ways  they  had, 
too,  sech  as  strong  opp'sition  to  Baptists,  an' 
dreffle  dislikin'  to  furr'ners,  and  the  greatest 
app'tite  for  old-fashioned,  hum -made,  white- 
oak  cheese.  Then  they  was  all  'posed  to 
swearin',  an'  didn't  never  use  perfane  lan 
guage,  none  o'  the  Knappses;  but  there  was 
jest  one  sayin'  they  had  when  'xcited  or 
s'prised  or  anything,  an'  that  was,  '  C'rinthi- 
ans !'  They  would  say  that,  all  on  'em,  'fore 
they  died,  one  time  or  t'other.  An'  when  a 
Knapp  said  it,  it  did  sound  like  the  awf'lest 
kind  o'  perfan'ty ;  but  o'  course  it  wa'n't.  An' 
'fore  an'  over  all,  ev'ry  born  soul  on  'em  took 
ter  flowers  an'  gard'ns.  They  would  have  'em 
wherever  they  was.  An'  ev'rything  they  touch 
ed  growed  an'  thriv' ;  drouth  didn't  dry  'em, 
wet  didn't  mould  'em,  bugs  didn't  eat  'em ; 
they  come  up  an'  leafed  out  an'  budded  an' 
blowed  for  the  poorest,  needin'est  Knapp  't 
lived,  with  only  the  teentiest  bit  of  a  back  yard 
for  'em  to  grow  in,  or  brok'n  teapots  an  crackt 
pitchers  to  hold  'em.  But  they  might  have  all 
the  finest  posies  in  the  land,  roses  an'  heelyer- 


BUTTERNEGGS.  15 1 

tropes  an'  verbeny  an'  horseshoe  g'raniums,  an' 
they'd  swop  'em  all  off,  ary  Knapp  would — 
our  branch — for  one  single  plant  o'  that  bless 
ed  flower  ye  fetched  me  to-day — butterneggs. 
How 't  come  about 's  more'n  I  can  say,  or  how 
long  it's  ben  goin'  on — from  the  very  fust  start 
o'  things  fortino — but  'tennerate  ev'ry  single 
Knapp  I  ever  see  or  heerd  on  held  butterneggs 
to  be  the  beautif'lest  posy  God  ever  made. 

"I  can't  go  myself  in  my  rec'lection  back 
o'  my  great-gran 'mother,  but  I  r'member  her, 
though  I  was  a  speck  of  a  gal  when  she  died. 
She  was  a  Bissell  o'  Nor'field,  this  State,  but 
she  married  a  Knapp,  an'  seemed  to  grow  right 
inter  Knapp  ways  ;  an'  she  an'  gran'f'ther — 
great -gran'f'ther  I  mean,  Shearjashub  Knapp 
— they  used  to  have  a  big  bed  o'  butterneggs 
in  front  o'  the  side  door,  an'  it  made  the  hull 
yard  look  sunshiny  even  when  the  day  was 
dark  an'  drizzly.  There  ain't  nothin'  shinin'er 
an'  goldier  than  them  flowers  with  the  differ 
ent  kinds  o'  yeller  in  'em ;  they'll  most  freckle 
ye,  they're  so  much  like  the  sun  shinin'.  Then 
the  next  gen'ration  come  Gran'pa  Knapp — his 
giv'n  name  was  Ezry — an'  he  was  bedrid  for 


152  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

more'n  six  year.  An'  he  had  butterncggs  plain 
ed  in  boxes  an'  stood  all  'round  his  bed,  an'  he 
did  take  sech  cumf't  in  'em.  The  hull  room 
was  yeller  with  'em,  an'  they  give  him  a  sort 
o'  biliousy,  jandersy  look ;  but  he  did  set  so 
by  'em  ;  an'  the  very  last  growin'  thing  the 
good  old  man  ever  set  eyes  on  here  b'low, 
afore  he  see  the  green  fields  beyond  the  swell- 
in'  flood,  was  them  bright  an'  shinin'  buttern- 
eggs.  An'  his  sister  Hopey,  she  't  married 
Enoch  Ambler  o'  Greens  Farms,  I  never  shall 
forgit  her  butterneggs  border 't  run  all  'round 
her  gard'n;  the  pea-green  leaves  an'  yeller  an' 
saffrony  blooms  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
biled  sparrergrass  with  chopped-egg  sarce. 

"  Well,  you'll  wonder  what  on  airth  I'm  at 
with  all  this  rigmajig  'bout  the  Knappses  an' 
their  ways;  but  you'll  see  bimeby  that  it's  all 
got  suthin'  to  do  with  the  story  I  begun  on 
'bout  my  sister,  an'  the  way  I  come  to  lose  her 
an'  find  her  ag'in.  There's  jest  one  thing  more 
I  must  put  in,  an'  that's  how  the  Knappses 
gen'lly  died.  Twas  eenamost  allers  o'  dum'- 
aigger.  That's  what  they  called  it  them  days; 
1  s'pose  'twould  be  malairy  now;  but  that 


BUTTERNEGGS.  1 53 

wa'n't  invented  then,  an'  we  had  to  git  along 
's  well 's  we  could  without  sech  lux'ries.  The 
Knappses  was  long-lived — called  threescore  'n 
ten  bein'  cut  off  in  the  midst  o'  your  days — 
but  when  they  did  come  ter  die  'twas  most 
gen'lly  o'  dum'aigger.  But  even  'bout  that  they 
had  their  own  ways;  an'  when  a  Knapp  —  our 
branch  I  would  say — got  dum'aigger,  why, 
'twas  dummer  an'  aiggerer  'n  other  folkses 
dum'aigger,  an'  so  't  got  the  name  o'  the 
Knapp -shakes.  An'  they  all  seemed  to  use 
the  same  rem'dies  an'  physics  for  the  c'm- 
plaint.  They  wa'n't  much  for  doctors,  but 
they  all  bleeved  in  yarbs  an'  hummade  steeps 
an'  teas.  An'  'thout  any  'dvice  or  doctor's 
receipts  or  anything,  's  soon  's  they  felt  the 
creepy,  goose-fleshy,  shiv'ry  feelin'  that  meant 
dum'aigger,  with  their  heads  het  up  an'  their 
feet  'most  froze,  they'd  jest  put  some  cam'mile 
an'  hardhack  to  steep,  an'  sew  a  strip  o'  red 
flann'l  round  their  neck,  an'  put  a  peppergrass 
poultice  to  the  soles  o'  their  feet,  an'  go  to 
bed;  an'  there  they'd  lay,  drinkin' their  cam' 
mile  an*  hardhack,  strong  an'  hot,  an'  allers 
with  their  head  on  a  hard,  thin  piller,  till  all 


154  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

was  over,  an'  they  was  in  a  land  where  there's 
no  dum'aigger  nor  any  kinder  sickness  't  all. 
Gran'f'ther  died  o'  dum'aigger;  great -gran'- 
fther  died  on  it — had  it  six  year;  Aunt  Hopey 
Ambler,  great-aunt  Cynthy,  an'  second  cous'n 
Shadrach  all  went  off  that  way.  An'  pa— well, 
he  didn't  die  so;  but  that's  part  o'  my  sister's 
story. 

"Ma,  she  was  a  Beebe,  's  I  said  afore, 
but  she  might  'a  ben  'most  anything  else,  for 
there  wa'n't  any  strong  Beebe  ways  to  her. 
Her  mother  was  a  Palmer — 'most  ev'rybody's 
mother  is,  down  Stonin'ton  way,  ye  know — 
an'  ma  was  's  much  Palmer  's  Beebe,  an'  she 
was  more  Thayer  than  ary  one  on  'em  (her 
gran'mother  was  a  Thayer).  So  't  stands  to 
reas'n  that  when  we  child'en  come  'long  we 
was  more  Knapp  than  Beebe.  There  was  two 
on  us,  twins  an'  gals,  me  an'  my  sister ;  an' 
they  named  us  arter  pa's  twin  sisters  't  died 
years  afore,  Coretty  an'  Loretty,  an'  I'm  Loretty. 

"Well,  by  the  time  we  was  four  year  old 
pa  he'd  riz  to  be  cap'n.  He  was  honest  an' 
stiddy,  's  all  the  Knappses  be,  an'  that's  the 
sort  they  want  for  whalin'.  So  when  the  Tiger 


BUTTERNEGGS.  1^5 

was  to  be  fitted  up  for  a  three -year  v'yge, 
why,  there  was  nothin'  for't  but  pa  he  must 
go  cap'n.  But  ma  she  took  on  so  'bout  it — 
for  he  hadn't  ben  off  much  sence  she  married 
him — that  jest  for  peace,  if  nothin'  else,  he 
fm'lly  consented  to  take  her  an'  the  twins 
along  too ;  an'  so  we  went.  Well,  I  can't  tell 
ye  much  about  that  v'yge,  o'  course.  I  was 
on'y  a  baby,  an'  all  I  know  about  it 's  what  ma 
told  me  long  a'terward.  But  the  v'yge  'ain't 
got  much  to  do  with  my  story.  They  done 
pretty  fair,  took  a  good  many  sperm-whales, 
got  one  big  lump  o'  ambergrease,  an'  pa  he 
was  in  great  sperrits,  when  all  on  a  suddent 
there  come  a  dreffle  storm,  an'  they  lost  their 
reck'nin',  an'  they  got  on  some  rocks,  an'  the 
poor  old  Tiger  went  all  to  pieces.  I  never  can 
rightly  remember  how  any  soul  on  us  was 
saved;  but  we  was,  some  way  or  t'other,  ma 
an'  me  an'  some  o'  the  crew,  but  poor  pa  an* 
Coretty  was  lost.  As  nigh  's  I  can  rec'lect  the 
story,  we  was  tied  to  suthin'  nuther  that  'd 
float,  ma  an'  me,  an'  a  ship  picked  us  up  anv 
fetched  us  home.  Tennerate  we  got  here — to 
Stonin'ton  1  mean — but  poor  ma  was  a  heart- 


156  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

brok'n  widder,  an'  I  was  half  an  orph'n  an' 
only  half  a  pair  o'  twins.  For  my  good  pa  an' 
that  dear  little  Coretty  was  both  left  far  behind 
in  the  dreadful  seas.  An'  that's  why  pa  didn't 
die  o'  the  Knapp-shakes. 

"I  won't  take  up  your  time  tellin'  all  that 
come  arter  that,  for  it's  another  part  you  want 
to  hear.  So  I'll  skip  over  to  the  time  when  I 
was  a  woman  growed,  ma  dead  an'  gone,  an' 
me  livin'  all  by  myself,  a  single  woman,  goin' 
on  thirty-seven  year  old,  or  p'r'aps  suthin'  old 
er,  in  Har'ford,  this  State.  I'd  had  my  ups  an' 
my  downs,  more  downs  than  ups ;  I'd  worked 
hard  an'  lived  poor ;  but  I  was  a  Knapp,  an' 
never  gin  up,  an'  so  at  last  there  I  was  in  a  little 
bit  of  a  house,  all  my  own,  on  Morg'n  Street, 
Har'ford.  An'  there  I  lived,  quite  well-to-do, 
an'  no  disgrace  to  any  Knapp  't  ever  lived,  be 
she  who  she  be.  I  had  plenty  to  do,  though  I 
hadn't  any  reg'lar  trade.  I  wa'n't  a  tail'ress  ex 
actly,  but  I  could  make  over  their  pa's  pant'- 
loons  for  boys,  an*  cut  out  jackets  by  a  pattern 
for  'em ;  an'  I  wa'n't  a  real  mill'ner,  but  I  could 
trim  up  a  bunnet  kind  o'  tasty,  an'  bleach  over 
a  Leghorn  or  a  fancy  braid  as  well  as  a  perfes- 


BUTTERNEGGS.  1 57 

sion'l ;  I  never  larnt  the  dress-makin'  trade,  but 
I  knew  how  to  cut  little  gals'  frocks  an'  make 
their  black  silk  ap'ons;  an'  I'd  rip  up  an'  press 
an'  clean  ladies'  dresses,  an'  do  over  their  crape 
an'  love  veils,  an'  steam  up  their  velvet  ribb'ns 
over  the  teakettle  to  raise  the  pile.  An'  I  sew 
ed  over  carpets,  an'  stitched  wristban's,  an' — I 
don't  know  what  I  didn't  do  them  days,  for  I 
had  what  ary  Knapp  I  ever  see — I  mean  our 
branch — had  all  their  born  days,  an'  that  was, 
's  I  s'pose  you  know,  o'  course — fac'lty. 

"An'  the  best  fam'lies  in  Har'ford  employed 
me,  an'  set  by  me,  an'  knowin'  what  I  was  an' 
what  my  an'stors  had  ben,  they  treated  me  's 
if  I  was  one  of  their  own  sort.  An'  ag'in  an' 
ag'in  I've  set  to  the  same  table  with  sech  folks 
's  the  Wadsworthses  an'  Ellsworthses  an'  Ter- 
rys  an'  Wellses  an'  Huntin'tons.  An'  I  made 
a  good  deal  outer  my  gard'nin'.  I  had  all  the 
Knapp  hank'rin'  for  that,  an'  from  the  time  I 
was  a  mite  of  a  gal  I  was  allers  diggin'  an' 
scratchin'  in  the  dirt  like  a  hen,  stickin'  in 
seeds  an'  slips,  an'  pullin'  up  weeds,  snippin' 
an'  prunin'  an'  trainin'  an'  wat'rin'.  An'  I  had 
the  beautif'lest  gard'n  in  Har'ford,  an'  made  a 


<5$  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

pretty  penny  outer  it  too.  I  sold  slips  an'  cut- 
tin's,  an'  saved  seeds  o'  my  best  posies,  puttin' 
'em  up  in  little  paper  cases,  pasted  over  at  the 
edges,  an'  there  was  plenty  o'  cust'mers  for 
'em,  I  can  tell  ye.  For  my  sunflowers  was  's 
big  as  pie  plates,  my  hollyhawks  jest  dazzlin' 
to  look  at,  my  cant'b'ry-bells  big  an'  blue,  my 
daily ers  's  quilly  's  quills — all  colors  :  I  had 
four  kinds  o'  pinks;  I  had  bach'lor's-butt'ns, 
feather -fews,  noneserpretties,  sweet-williams, 
chiny- asters,  flowerdelooses,  tulups,  daffies, 
larkspurs,  prince's-feathers,  cock's-combs,  red- 
balm,  mournin'-bride,  merrygools — Oh,  I'm  all 
outer  breath,  an'  I  'ain't  told  ye  half  the  blooms 
I  had  in  that  Har'ford  gard'n.  But  I  could  tell 
ye!  If 'twas  all  drawed  out  there  on  that  floor 
an'  painted  to  life,  I  couldn't  see  it  any  plain- 
er'n  I  see  't  this  minnit,  eyes  shet  or  op'n.  An' 
how  I  did  set  by  them  beds!  Dr.  Hawes — I 
went  to  the  Centre  to  meetin' — Dr.  Hawes  he 
says,  one  time  when  he  come  to  make  a  pas- 
t'ral  call,  says  he  in  his  way — he  was  kinder 
ongraceful,  ye  know — pintin'  his  long  finger 
at  me  an'  shakin'  it  up  an'  down,  he  says: 
'Loretty,  Loretty,'  very  loud  an'  sollum,  ye 


BUTTERNEGGS.  1 59 

know,  '  don't  you  set  your  'factions  on  them 
fadin'  flowers  o'  earth,  an'  forgit  the  never- 
with'rin'  flowers  o'  heav'n,'  he  says.  Ye  see 
he'd  ben  prayin'  with  me,  an'  right  in  the 
midst  an'  'mongst  o'  his  prayer  he  ketched 
sight  o'  me  reachin'  out  to  pull  up  a  weed  in 
the  box  o'  young  balsams  I  was  startin'  in  the 
house.  So  'tain't  no  wonder  he  was  riled,  for 
he  was  dreffle  good,  an'  was  one  of  them  folks 
who,  's  the  hymn  says, 

'  Knows  the  wuth  o'  prayer, 
An'  wishes  offen  to  be  there.' 

"Well,  'twas  'bout  that  time,  's  I  was  sayin', 
an'  I  was  a  single  woman  o'  thirty -seven,  or 
p'r'aps  a  leetie  more,  not  wuth  countin'  on  a 
single  woman's  age,  when  there  come  upon 
me  the  biggest,  awf 'lest,  scariest  s'prise  't  ever 
come  upon  any  one  afore,  let  'lone  a  Knapp — 
our  branch.  A  letter  come  to  me  one  day 
from  Cap'n  Akus  Chadwick,  form'ly  o'  Ston- 
in'ton,  an'  a  friend  o'  pa's,  but  now  an  old  man 
in  New  Lon'on,  an'  this  's  what  he  says: 
Seems  't  a  ship  'd  come  into  New  Bedford,  a 
whalin'  ship,  with  a  r'mark'ble  story.  They'd 
had  rough  weather  an'  big  gales,  an'  got  outer 


J60  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

their  course,  an'  they'd  sighted  land,  an'  when 
they  come  to't — I  don'  know  how  or  why  they 
did  come  to't,  whether  they  meant  ter  or  had 
ter — they  see  on  the  shore  a  woman,  an'  when 
they  landed  there  wa'n't  ary  other  folks  on  the 
hull  island  ;  nothin'  but  four-footed  critters — 
wild  ones — an'  birds  an'  monkeys,  an'  all  kind 
er  outlandish  bein's ;  not  a  blessed  man  or 
woman,  not  even  a  heath'n  or  a  idle,  's  fur 's 
they  could  tell,  in  the  hull  deestrick,  but  on'y 
jest  this  one  poor  woman.  An'  she  couldn't 
talk  no  more'n  Juley  Brace  to  the  'sylum ;  an' 
she  was  queer -lookin',  an'  her  clo'es  was  all 
outer  fash'n,  kinder  furry  an'  skinny  garm'nts, 
an'  she  had  a  lonesome,  scaret  kinder  look,  's 
if  she  hadn't  ben  much  in  cump'ny.  An'  yit 
with  't  all  there  was  a  sorter  r'spectable  'pear- 
ance,  an' —  Oh,  ladies,  I'm  all  stuffed  up,  an' 
can't  swaller  good.  I'm  livin'  over 'n  my  mind 
the  fust  time  I  read  them  words,  an'  was  struck 
all  'n  a  heap  by  'em.  Jest  hand  me  them  po 
sies  a  minnit,  an'  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  jiffy. 
There,  now  I  can  go  on.  With  it  all,  he  says, 
there  was  a  strong  Knapp  look  about  this  un- 
fort'nate  isl'nder ;  in  fac',  she  favored  'em  so 


BUTTERNEGGS.  l6l 

strong  't  the  fust  mate,  a  Mystic  man,  who'd 
offen  heerd  the  story  o'  pa's  shipwreck  an' 
Coretty's  drownin',  thought  he'd  orter  'nquire 
inter  the  matter.  The  cap'n  o'  the  ship  was  a 
Scotchman,  an'  the  sailors  was  mostly  Porter- 
geese,  an'  Sandwidgers,  an'  Kannakers,  an'  she 
wouldn't  take  no  notice  o'  ary  on  'em,  an'  tried 
to  run  away.  But  when  'Lias  Mall'ry,  the  mate, 
went  up  to  her  she  stopped  an'  looked  't  him, 
an'  kinder  gabbled  a  leetle  bit,  in  a  jibbery  sort 
er  way,  an'  when  he  ast  her  to  come  aboard, 
she  follered  like  a  lamb.  An'  they  fetched  her 
along,  an'  the  more  they  see  on  her — I  mean 
'Lias,  who  was  the  only  one  't  knowed  the 
Knappses,  our  branch — the  more 't  seemed  sure 
an'  sartin  't  this  was  reely  an'  truly,  strange  as 
't  might  be,  Coretty  Knapp,  who'd  ben  lost 
more'n  thirty  year  afore.  There's  no  use  my 
tryin'  to  tell  you  how  I  felt,  or  what  I  done 
jest  at  fust ;  when  I  read  that  letter  I  couldn't 
seem  to  sense  it  one  mite,  an'  yit  in  half  an 
hour 't  seemt  's  if  I'd  a -knowed  it  a  year,  an' 
I  never  misdoubted  that  'twas  true  's  gospil, 
an'  that  my  poor  dear  little  twin  sister  Coretty 
'd  ben  found  an' was  comin'  home  to  me. 
ii 


1 62  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

"I  gin  up  pa  t'wunst;  he'd  'a  ben  too  old 
now,  even  for  a  Knapp,  an'  I  see  plain  enough 
't  he  must  be  deader'n  dead  ;  but  oh,  what 
'twas  to  realize  't  I  had  a  reel  flesh  an'  blood 
sister,  queer  an'  oncivilized  's  she  must  be  a'ter 
livin'  in  the  backwoods  so  long!  The  letter 
went  on  to  say  that  'Lias  Mall'ry  was  on  his 
way  to  Har'ford  this  very  minnit,  'bringin'  Miss 
Knapp  to  her  only  livin'  r'lation' — that  was  me. 
An'  't  said  they  was  goin'  to  bring  her  jest 's  she 
was  when  they  ketched  her,  so's  I  could  see  her 
in  her  nat'ral  state:  an' who  had  a  better  right? 
'  But  land's  sake!'  I  says  to  myself 's  I  lay  that 
letter  down,  'how  she'll  look  a-comin'  through 
Har'ford  streets  all  skinny  an'  furry  an' jabbery 
's  they  d'scribe  her!  I  do  hope  she'll  take  a 
carr'ge.'  Well,  I  couldn't  stand  all  this  alone, 
an'  I  put  on  my  bunnit  an'  shawl  an'  went  up 
to  Dr.  Hawes's  an'  to  Deac'n  Colt'ns's  an'  over 
to  Sister  Pitkins's,  an'  I  told  'em  all  this  amazin' 
hist'ry,  wonderf'ler  than  Rob'nson  Crusoe  or 
Riley's  Narr'tive.  An'  sech  a  stir 's  it  made  in 
quiet  old  Har'ford  you'd  never  bleeve.  Afore 
I'd  fairly  got  hum  an'  took  off  my  things,  folks 
begun  to  call.  Ev'ry  one  wanted  to  know  'f 


BUTTERNEGGS.  163 

'twas  reely  an'  truly  so,  an'  'f  I  had  a  reel  live 
heath'n  sister  comin'  home  from  them  far 
away  countries  where  ev'ry  prospeck  pleases 
an'  only  man  is  vile.  But  this  part  on't  I 
wouldn't  hear  to  for  a  minnit.  '  Whatever  she 
is,'  I  says,  '  she  ain't  a  heath'n.  She's  a  Knapp, 
born  'f  not  bred,  an'  there  never  was  a  heath'n 
'mong  the  Knappses  sence  Knappses  was  fust 
made.  Mebbe  she  ain't  a  perfesser,'  I  says, 
'  prob'ly  ain't,  for  she  'ain't  had  no  settled 
min'ster  or  sech  priv'leges,  but  she  don't  have 
nothin'  to  do  with  idles  an'  sech  fooi'shness, '  I 
says.  But  I  could  see  't  they  was  countin'  on 
suthin'  outer  this  for  monthly  concert,  an'  that 
stirred  me  up  a  leetle ;  but  I  jest  waited.  An' 
bimeby — what  do  you  think  o'  this? — there 
was  a  c'mitty  waited  on  me.  An'  sech  a  time ! 
"  There  was  P'fessor  Phelps  o'  the  Con- 
gr'ational  Sem'nary,  an'  P'fessor  Spencer  o' 
Wash'n't'n  Collige,  an'  Elder  Day,  the  Bap 
tist  min'ster  ;  an'  there  was  one  o'  the  DenV- 
cratic  ed'tors  o'  the  Har'ford  Times  an'  some 
one  from  the  Connet'cut  Cur'nt,  an'  Dr. 
Barnes,  o'  Weth'sfield,  a  infiddle,  who'd  writ 
a  sorter  Tom  Painey  book  that  was  put 


164  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

inter  the  stove  by  ev'ry  Christian  't  got  hold 
on  it.  An'  there  was  Mr.  Gallagher  from  the 
deaf  an'  dumb  'sylum,  an'  Dr.  Cook  from  the 
crazy  'sylum,  an'  Mr.  Williams,  the  'Piscople 
min'ster,  an'  Priest  O'Conner,  the  Cath'lic,  an' 
Pars'n  Loomis,  the  Meth'dist.  That's  'bout  all, 
I  bleeve,  but  there  may  'a  ben  some  I  disre- 
member  arter  all  these  years.  An'  what  do 
you  think — what  do  you  think  they  wanted  ? 
Twas  some  time  afore  I  could  see  through 
their  talk  myself,  for  they  was  all  big  scholars, 
an'  you  know  them's  the  hardest  sort  to  com- 
pr'end.  But  bimeby  I  made  out 't  they  was 
all  dreffle  'xcited  about  this  story  o'  my  sister, 
for  it  gin  'em  a  chance  they'd  never  'xpected 
to  git,  of  a  bran'-new  human  bein'  growed  up 
without  'precept  or  'xample,'  's  they  say,  or 
ary  idee  o'  religion  or  pol'tics  or  church  gov'n- 
ment,  or  doctrines  of  any  sort.  An'  they'd  all 
got  together  an'  'greed,  'f  I  was  willin',  they'd 
jest  'xper'ment  on  Coretty  Knapp.  Well,  't 
fust  I  didn't  take  t'  the  idee  one  speck.  It 
seemed  kinder  onnat'ral  an'  onhuman  to  go  to 
work  pullin'  to  pieces  an'  patchin'  up  an'  fittin' 
in  scraps  to  this  poor,  onfort'nate,  empty  sorter 


BUTTERNEGGS.  165 

soul 't  had  strayed  'way  off  from  its  hum  in  a 
Christian  land  o'  deestrick  schools  an'  meetin's, 
an'  all  sech  priv'leges,  instead  o'  takin'  her 
right  inter  our  hearts  an'  'fections,  an'  larnin' 
her  all 't  she  orter  know.  T  seemed  's  if  we 
orter  let  'xper'ments  alone,  an'  go  to  coddlin' 
an'  coss'tin'  up  this  poor  lost  sheep,  which 
was  wuth  far  more'n  ninety  an'  nine  which 
goes  not  astray. 

"But  howsomepro — as  Elder  Cheeseman 
used  to  say — they  was  all,  's  I  said  afore,  larn- 
ed  men,  an'  most  on  'em  good  men  too,  an'  's 
they  was  all  'greed,  an'  I  was  only  one,  and  a 
woman  too,  I  gin  up.  An'  afore  they  left  'twas 
all  settled  't  they  should  all  have  a  try  at  poor 
sister  Coretty,  an'  all  persent  their  own  views 
on  religion,  pol'tics,  an'  so  forth.  An'  me  nor 
nobody  was  to  make  nor  meddle  aforehand, 
or  try  to  prej'dice  her  one  way  or  t'other;  an' 
so  they  'xpected  to  find  out  what  the  nat'ral 
mind  would  take  ter,  or  whether  there  was 
anything  't  all  in  heredit'ry  ways.  I  could  'a 
telled  'em  that  last  afore  they  b'gun,  but  I 
thought  I'd  let  'em  find  't  out  their  own  way. 

"You  might  think,  mebbe,  I'd  ben  scaret 


1 66  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

'bout  the  r'sult.  For  what  a  dreffle  thing  'f 
poor  Coretty  'd  ben  talked  over  by  Elder  Day 
— a  dreffle  glib  talker,  's  all  Baptists  be,  an'  a 
reel  good  man,  's  most  on  'em  is,  though  I  say 
't  's  shouldn't,  bein'  a  Knapp  myself,  with  all 
the  Knappses'  d'slike  to  their  doctrines — what 
'f  she'd  ben  talked  over  to  'mersion  an'  close 
c'mmunion  views,  an'  ben  dipped  'stead  o' 
sprinkled  ?  Or  agin,  'f  she'd  bleeved  all  the 
Cath'lic  priest  let  on,  an'  swallered  his  can'les 
an'  beads  an'  fish  an'  sech  popish  things.  Or 
wuss  still,  s'pose  she'd  backslid  hully,  an'  put 
her  trust  in  Dr.  Barnes's  talk,  b'comin'  an  in- 
fiddle,  like  unter  the  fool  that  said  in  his  heart. 
But  some  way  or  t'other  I  wa'n't  a  mite  'fraid. 
I  fell  right  back  on  my  faith  in  a  overrulin' 
Prov'dence,  an'  p'r'aps  more  on  Knapp  ways, 
an'  felt  all  the  time  Coretty  'd  come  out  right 
at  the  eend. 

"But  you  see  she  hadn't  come  yit,  an'  the 
thing  was  ter  know  whether  you  could  make 
her  un'erstan'  anything  till  she'd  larnt  to  talk. 
'F  she  could  only  gabble,  how  was  any  on  us 
to  know  whether  she  gabbled  Baptistry  or 
'Piscopality  or  whatall,  an'  we'd  got  to  wait 


BUTTERNEGGS.  167 

an'  see.  An'  Mr.  Gallagher,  o'  the  'sylum,  he 
wanted  to  try  her  on  signs  fust,  an'  see  'f  he 
couldn't  c'munnicate  with  her  right  off  by 
snappin'  his  fingers  an'  screwin'  up  his  featur's 
an'  p'intin'  at  her  in  that  dumb  way  they  do 
up  t'  the  'sylum.  He  said  'twas  more  nat'ral 
to  do  that  way  than  to  talk ;  but  then  he 
didn't  know  much  about  the  Knappses  an' 
their  powers  o'  speech.  An'  Dr.  Cook,  the 
crazy  doctor,  he  said  he  was  int'rested  in  the 
brains  part  o'  the  subjick,  an'  he'd  jest  liketer 
get  at  'em ;  he  wanted  to  see  what  'feet  on 
her  head  an'  'djacent  parts  this  queer  sorter 
retired  life  'd  had.  An'  so  they  went  on  till 
they  went  off. 

"Well,  might  's  well  come  to  the  p'int  o' 
my  story,  an'  the  blessed  minnit  I  fust  see  my 
twin  sister,  my  t'other  half,  you  might  say, 
for  'twas  reely  her,  a-comin'  in  at  the  gate. 
'Twa'n't  so  bad  's  I  'xpected.  I'd  kinder  got 
my  head  sot  on  picters  o'  the  Eskimoses  in 
my  jography,  with  buff'lo  robes  tied  round 
'em,  an'  I  was  r'lieved  when  1  see  her  get 
outer  the  carr'ge  with  'Lias  Mall'ry  lookin' 
quite  respect'ble  an'  Knappy.  To  be  sure  she 


1 68  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

had  skins  on,  but  she'd  gone  an'  made  'em 
inter  a  reel  fair  likeness  o'  my  plainest  ev'ry- 
day  dresses,  cut  gorin'  an'  sorter  fittin'  in  at  the 
waist,  an'  with  the  skirt  pretty  long,  'bout  to 
the  tops  o'  her  gaiters.  An'  she  had  quite  a 
nice-lookin'  bunnit  on,  braided  o'  some  kinder 
furrin  grass  or  straw,  hum -made  o'  course, 
an'  not  jest  in  the  latest  fash'n,  but  that  wa'n't 
to  be  'xpected,  when  she'd  made  it  'fore  ever 
seein'  one.  An'  she  was  dreffle  tanned  an' 
freckled  an'  weather -beat  like,  but,  oh,  my! 
my!  wa'n't  she  a  Knapp  all  over,  from  head 
to  foot !  Ev'ry  featur'  favored  some  o'  the 
fam'ly.  There  was  Uncle  Zadock's  long  nose, 
an'  gran'mer's  square  chin,  an'  Aunt  Hopey's 
thick  eyebrows,  an'  dear  pa's  pacin'  walk,  an' 
over  an'  above  all  there  was  me  all  over  her,  's 
if  I  was  a-lookin'  't  myself  in  a  lookin'-glass. 
I  dun  know  what  I  done  for  a  minnit.  I 
cried  an'  I  choked  an'  I  blowed  my  nose,  an'  I 
couldn't  say  one  blessed  word  till  I  swallered 
hard  an'  set  my  teeth,  an'  then  1  bust  out, '  Oh, 
Coretty  Knapp,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye!  how's 
your  health  ?'  I'd  forgot  for  a  minnit  'bout 
her  not  talkin',  but  I  own  I  was  beat  when 


BUTTERNEGGS.  169 

she  jest  says,  's  good  's  I  could  say  it  myself, 
says  she,  'Thank  ye,  sister  Loretty;  how's 
yourn  ?'  An'  we  shook  hands  an'  kissed  each 
other.  I'd  been  so  'fraid  she'd  rub  noses  or 
hit  her  forrid  on  the  ground — s'lammin',  's  the 
books  o'  travels  says — an'  then  she  took  one 
cheer  an'  I  took  another,  an'  we  both  took  a 
good  look  't  each  other,  for  you  know  we 
hadn't  met  anywheres  for  the  longest  spell. 
An'  I  forgot  all  about  'Lias  Mall'ry  till  he  says, 
'  You  see,  Miss  Knapp,  she  speaks  pretty  good, 
don't  she  ?  Them  Scotch  an'  Portergeese  an' 
so  on  couldn't  get  a  word  out  on  her,  but  's 
soon  's  she  heerd  good  Connect'cut  spoke, 
she  picked 't  right  up  's  slick 's  anything. '  '  O' 
course  I  did,  Mr.  Mall'ry,'  says  Coretty.  'I 
never  could  abide  them  furriners.  United 
States  talk  's  good  enough  for  me,'  says  she. 
'Knapp  all  over,'  says  I;  'an'  now  do  take 
off  your  things  an'  jest  make  yourself  to  hum, 
an'  le's  have  a  good  old-fashioned  talk,  for  I 
'ain't  seen  none  o'  my  folks  for  so  long.' 

"But  when  she  took  off  her  bunnit  an'  I 
see  how  the  poor  thing  'd  ben  an'  gone  an' 
twisted  up  her  hair  behind  in  the  same  tight, 


170  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

knobby,  Knappy  way  all  the  Knappses — the 
female  part  o'  our  branch,  I  mean — had  fixed 
theirn  for  gen'rations  farzino,  I  'most  cried 
ag'in.  'Course  she  hadn't  no  hair-pins  nor 
shoestring  to  fast'n  't  with,  but  she'd  tied  it 
tight  's  tight  with  some  kind  o'  barky  stuff, 
an'  stuck  a  big  thorn  in  to  keep  it  there. 

"Well,  you  won't  care  'bout  our  talk;  it 
was  all  folksy  an'  Knappy  an'  'bout  fam'ly 
matters,  for  we  had  lots  to  talk  about.  She'd 
lost  all  run  o'  the  fam'ly  an'  neighbors,  never 
hearin'  a  word  for  more'n  thirty  year.  In  fac', 
she'd  forgot  all  about  pa  an'  ma  an'  me,  's  was 
nat'ral,  with  not  a  livin'  soul  to  talk  to,  for  she 
owned  right  up  she'd  never  seed  a  human 
bein',  or  heerd  a  word  o'  speech,  or  seen  a  pa 
per,  sence  I  see  her  last  in  that  dreffle  spell  o' 
weather  out  to  sea.  So  I'll  jest  jump  over  to 
where  the  'xperiment  was  tried  an'  how  it 
come  out.  I'd  kep'  my  prommus  an'  never 
said  one  word  about  religion,  or  pol'tics,  or 
church  gover'ment,  or  anything  o'  that  kind, 
though  I  did  ache  to  know  her  views. 

"An'  they  all  come  in,  the  ev'nin'  arter  she 
arriv,  the  c'mitty,  I  mean,  to  have  it  out  with 


BUTTERNEGGS.  171 

her.  Coretty  didn't  s'rmise  'twas  an  'xperi- 
ment — she  thought  'twas  a  sorter  visitin'  time, 
an'  she  was  dreffle  fond  o'  comp'ny,  an'  never 
'd  had  much  chance  for  't.  So  there  she  set, 
a-knittin'  (she  took  to  that  right  off,  an'  'fore 
I'd  done  castin'  on  for  her  she  ketched  it  outer 
my  hands  an'  says,  '  Twill  be  stronger  with 
double  thread,  Loretty,'  an'  she  ravelled  it  out 
an'  done  it  over  double).  She  set  there  knit- 
tin',  's  I  said  afore,  an'  I  set  close  by  her,  an' 
the  c'mitty  they  set  round,  an'  they'd  'greed 
'mong  theirselves  how  they'd  do  it,  an'  who'd 
have  the  fust  chance,  an'  arter  a  few  p'lite 
remarks  about  the  weather  an'  her  health, 
an'  sech,  Mr.  Williams,  the  'Piscople  min'ster, 
begun.  An'  he  says :  '  Miss  Knapp,  I  s'pose 
there  wa'n't  no  Church  in  your  place  o'  res'- 
dence,  seein'  't  there  was  so  few  'nhabitants. 
But  even  'f  there'd  a-ben  more  T  a  parish,' 
says  he, '  there  couldn't  'a  ben  no  reel  Church ' 
(he  spoke  it  with  a  cap'tle  C,  's  all  'Piscoples 
does),  ''s  there  wa'n't  no  prop'ly  fixed -up 
priest,  nor  no  bishop  to  put  his  hands  on  one,' 
he  says.  (Mebbe  I  don't  give  jest  the  very 
words,  but  I  git  the  meanin'  straight.)  'No, 


172  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

sir/  says  sister,  'there  wa'n't  a  meetin'-house 
on  the  hull  island,  nor  any  means  o'  grace  o' 
that  kind;  for  there  wa'n't  no  folks  but  me, 
an'  you  can't  have  a  prosp'rous  religious  s'cie- 
ty  without  folks.  But  'f  there  had  ben,'  she 
says,  ribbin'  away  at  her  stockin'  top,  two  an' 
one,  two  an'  one,  says  she, '  we'd  'a  lis'ned  to 
a  few  can'dates,  an'  s'lected  a  suit'ble  party, 
had  a  s'ciety  meetin'  an'  called  him.  For  my 
self/  says  she,  'I  don't  set  much  by  this  ap- 
plestollic  success'n/ 

"Well,  I  was  beat  ag'in,  spite  o'  knowin' 
the  strong  feelin'  o'  the  fam'ly  on  that  very 
p'int;  for  how  on  airth  'd  she  picked  up  sech 
sound  an'  good  idees  'way  off  in  that  rurul 
deestrick  ?  I  tell  ye,  ye  can't  'xplain  it  on  ary 
other  ground  than  -ways;  'twas  Knapp  ways. 
Mr.  Williams  he  looked  a  mite  riled,  but  he 
was  a  dreffle  pleasant  man,  an'  he  kep'  on, 
though  the  others  they  sorter  smiled.  I  can't 
rec'lect  all  he  said,  but  'twas  'bout  the  orders 
in  the  Church,  the  deac'ns  an'  presbyter'ans 
an'  bishops,  an'  he  talked  'bout  the  creed  an' 
other  art'cles,  an'  collicks  an'  lit'nies,  an'  all 
them  litigical  things.  He  did  talk  beautiful,  1 


BUTTERNEGGS.  173 

own  it  myself,  an'  my  mouth  was  all  in  my 
heart  for  a  spell,  for  Coretty  kep'  so  still,  an' 
seemed  's  if  she  was  a-listenin'  an'  med'tatin'. 
But  in  a  minnit  I  see  she  was  jest  countin'  her 
stitches  to  set  her  seam,  an'  I  was  r'lieved. 
An'  when  he  got  through  talkin'  he  handed 
her  a  prayer-book,  jest  a  common  one,  he 
called  it,  an'  a  little  cat'chism.  Coretty  took 
'em,  perlite  's  ye  please,  an'  she  looked  't  the 
covers,  an'  she  says,  very  p'lite, '  Much  obleeged 
to  ye,  sir,  but  they  don't  seemter  int'rest  me 
someway.  I  can  make  up  prayers  for  my 
self,  'f  it's  all  the  same  to  you,'  she  says,  still 
dreffle  p'lite;  'an'  this  cat'chism  don't  seem 

JK 

to  go  t'  the  right  spot,  's  fur  as  I'm  consarned,' 
says  she,  not  op'nin'  it  't  all,  '  but  I'm  jest  's 
much  obleeged  to  ye;'  an' she  went  on  knittin'. 
"Then  Elder  Day  he  op'ned  the  subjeck  o' 
Baptistry.  Fust  sister  Coretty  lis'ned  p'litely 
's  she  had  afore,  but  he  hadn't  hardly  got  to  his 
sec'ndly  afore  she  pricked  up  her  ears  an' jump 
ed  's  if  suthin'  'd  hit  her,  an'  she  lay  down  her 
stockin'  an'  stiffened  up,  an'  she  looked  him 
right  in  the  eye;  an'  'fore  he  was  half-way  to 
the  thirdly  she  broke  out,  an'  she  says:  '  Elder 


174  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

Day,  I  don't  want  to  be  imp'lite  to  comp'ny  in 
my  sister's  house,  an'  me  jest  arriv,  but  there's 
suthin'  in  me  that  reely  can't  stand  them  doc 
trines  o'  yourn  another  minnit,  they  rile  me  so. 
No,  I  won't  stand  it!'  she  says,  with  her  face  all 
red,  an'  her  eyes  snappin',  an'  she  b'gun  to  geth- 
er  up  her  things,  and  git  up  outer  her  cheer  for 
a  run.  But  I  went  up  ter  her,  an'  whispered  to 
her,  an'  sorter  smoothed  her  down,  for  I  see 
what  'twas,  an'  t  the  old  Knapp  feelin'  'gainst 
Baptists  that'd  ben  growin'  up  an'  'ncreasin'  for 
cent'ries  was  all  comin'  inside  on  her  t'  wunst 
an'  tearin'  her  up ;  but  Elder  Day  he  jest  said, 
's  pleasant 's  pie-crust,  he  says,  '  Let  her  'lone, 
Miss  Knapp,  an'  I'll  read  her  a  soothin'  varse  or 
two,'  and  he  up  with  a  little  leather -covered 
book,  an'  he  read  out : 

'  A  few  drops  o'  water  dropped  from  a  man's  han', 
They  call  it  baptissum  an'  think  it  will  stan' 
On  the  head  of  a  child  that  is  under  the  cuss, 
But  that  has  no  warrant  in  Scripter  for  us.' 

"He  was  goin'  on,  but  Coretty  she  jest 
jumped  up,  makin'  her  cheer  fall  over  with  a 
bang,  an'  she  slat  her  work  down  an'  run  outer 
the  room,  her  knittin'  bobbin'  a'ter  her,  for  the 


BUTTERNEGGS.  175 

ball  o'  yarn  was  in  her  pocket.  I  went  a'ter 
her  to  coax  her  back,  but  she  kep'  a-sayin', 
'Oh,  Loretty,  what's  the  matter  o'  me!  I'm 
jest  bilin'  an'  bubblin'  an'  swellin'  up  inside, 
an'  I  feel 's  if  nothin'  could  help  me  but  burnin' 
up  a  few  Baptists,'  she  says.  An'  I  says,  '  Keep 
's  quiet  's  you  can,  sister ;  it's  dreffle  tryin',  I 
know,  an'  it's  all  come  on  you  t'  wunst — the 
strong  Knapp  feelin'  agin  'em — but  come  back 
to  the  keepin'-room  an'  we'll  change  the  sub- 
jeck.'  An' she  come.  An' then  Priest  O'Con- 
ner,  the  Cath'lic,  he  begun  at  her,  an'  he  was 
jest 's  smooth  's  silk,  an'  he  talked  reel  fluent 
'bout  the  saints,  an'  purg't'ry,  an'  Fridays,  an' 
the  bach'lor  state  for  min'sters,  an'  penances, 
an'  I  d'  know  whatall.  An'  Coretty  she  was 
hard  at  work  at  her  knittin',  an'  when  he 
stopped  to  take  breath,  an'  pull  out  some  beads 
an'  medals  an'  jingly  trink'ts  o'  that  sort,  she 
kinder  started  's  if  she'd  jest  waked  up,  an' 
she  says,  '  'Xcuse  me,  Mr.  O'Conner,  I  lost  the 
thread  o'  what  you  was  sayin'  for  a  minnit, 
but  I  won't  trubble  ye  to  go  over  't  agin;  I 
don't  seemter  take  to  Cath'lics,  an'  I  never 
wear  beads.'  An'  she  went  on  knittin'. 


176  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

"An'  so  'twas  with  'em  all — 'Piscople,  Bap 
tist,  Meth'dist  —  ev'ry  livin'  soul  on  'em,  they 
done  their  best,  an'  never  p'duced  any  im 
pression  't  all.  But  bimeby  P'fessor  Phelps,  o' 
the  Congr'ation'l  Sem'nary,he  got  his  turn, an' 
b'gun.  Oh,  how  she  did  jest  drink  it  in!  She 
dropped  her  knittin'  an'  set  up  an'  leaned  for- 
rud,  an'  she  smiled,  an'  nodded  her  head,  an' 
beat  her  hands  up  an'  down,  an'  tapped  her 
foot,  's  if  she  was  hearin'  the  takin'est  music ; 
she  'most  purred,  she  seemed  so  comfort'ble 
an'  sat'sfied.  Oncet  in  a  while  she'd  up  an' 
say  suthin'  herself  'fore  he  could  say  it.  Frin- 
stance,  when  he  come  to  foreord'nation  an' 
says,  '  My  good  woman,  I  hope  soon  ter  'xplain 
to  you  'bout  the  won'ful  decrees  o'  God,  an' 
how  they  are  His  etarnel  purpose,  an' '  — 
'Don't  put  yerself  out  to  do  that,  p'fessor,'  she 
says.  '  O'  course  I  know  't  accordin'  to  the 
couns'l  of  His  own  will  He  'th  foreordained 
whats'ever  cometh  to  pass;  but  I'd  jest  like  to 
hear  you  preach  on  that  subjeck.'  An'  when 
he  alluded  to  some  havin'  ben  'lected  to  ever- 
lastin'  life,  she  says,  kinder  low,  to  herself  like, 
'  Out  of  His  mere  good  pleasure  from  all  etar- 


BUTTERNEGGS.  177 

nity,  I  s'pose.'  The  very  words  o'  the  cat'- 
chism,  ye  see,  an'  she  never  goin'  to  weekly 
cat'chism  or  monthly  r'view!  An'  when  he 
stopped  a  minnit  she  says,  all  'xcited  like, 
'Now  I  call  that  talk,  an'  it's  the  very  fust  I've 
heerd  to-night.'  Then  he  took  a  book  out  of 
his  pocket.  'Twas  a  copy  of  the  old  New  Eng 
land  primer,  with  whity-blue  covers  outside 
an'  the  cat'chism  inside,  an'  he  says,  '  Miss 
Knapp,  p'raps  you  ain't  f  miliar  with  this  little 
book,  but — '  She  ketched  it  right  outer  his 
hand,  an'  the  tears  they  come  right  up  inter  her 
eyes,  an'  she  says,  in  a  shaky  voice,  '  I  don't 
think  I  ever  see  't  afore,  p'fessor,  but  it  'pears 
to  be  the  Westminster  Shorter.'  Then  she 
jest  give  way  an'  cried  all  over  it  till  'twas 
soppin'.  An'  she  did  jest  hang  on  ter  his 
words  when  he  come  to  the  prob'ble  futur'  o' 
most  folks,  an'  how  the  cat'chism  says  they're 
'  under  His  wrath  an'  cuss,  an'  so  made  li'ble 
to  all  the  mis'ries  o'  this  life,  to  death  itself,  an' 
the  pains  o'  hell  frever.'  She  jest  kep'  time  to 
them  words  with  her  head  an'  her  hands  an' 
her  feet,  's  if  'twas  an  old  toon  she'd  knowed 
all  her  born  days. 
12 


178  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

"An' so 'twas,  right  straight  through;  they 
tried  her  on  ev'rything,  an'  'twas  allus  the  same 
come-out;  she  picked  an'  kep'  all  the  Knappses 
had  allus  stood  to,  an'  throwed  away  what  the 
Knappses  'd  d'sliked.  She  'most  pitched  her 
knittin',  ball  an'  all,  at  the  Dem'cratic  news 
paper  man;  an'  when  the  Connet'cut  Cur'nt 
ed'tor  laid  down  the  Whig  platform,  she  called 
out  loud :  '  I'm  on  that ;  that's  my  pol'cy. 
Who's  our  cand'date  ?'  Poor  Mr.  Gallagher, 
he  didn't  make  out  to  c'mmunicate  with  her  's 
he  'xpected.  He  tried  her  on  a  Bible  story  in 
signs,  but  a'ter  lookin'  at  him  a  minnit  she 
turned  'way  an'  says :  '  Poor  creeter,  can't  he 
talk  any  ?  He  must  'a  ben  cast  away  some 
time,  I  guess,  an'  tis  sorter  dum'ing  to  the 
speech,  as  I  orter  know.  But  he'll  pick  't  up 
agin.'  An'  the  doctor  from  the  crazies,  an'  the 
p'fessor  from  Wash'n't'n  Collige,  they  tried  all 
kinds  o'  brainy  tricks  on  her,  but  her  head  was 
's  sound  as  their  own,  and  made  on  the  good 
old  Knapp  patt'n.  An' — oh,  I  wish  you  could 
'a  seen  how  foolish  Dr.  Barnes  looked  when 
she  says  to  him,  a'ter  he'd  op'ned  out  his  in- 
fiddle  b'liefs  or  unb'liefs,  says  she :  '  Now, 


BUTTERNEGGS.  179 

you  jest  hush  up.  I  sh'd  think  you'd  be 
ashamed,  a'ter  livin'  here  in  a  Christian  land 
'mong  Congr'ation'lists  all  your  days,  an'  not 
know  who  made  you,  an'  what  your  chief  eend 
is,  an'  what  the  Scripters  princ'p'ly  teach. 
Even  I  knowed  that, 'she  says,  'an'  me  in  a 
heath'n  land  o'  grav'n  im'ges.' 

"I'm  spinnin'  out  my  story  in  reel  Knappy 
way — they're  a  long  winded  lot — but  I'll  try  to 
bind  off  now.  But  fust  I  must  tell  ye  'bout  the 
time  I  showed  Coretty  my  gard'n.  She'd  ben 
anxious  to  see  't,  said  she  lotted  on  flowers, 
an'  had  dreffle  pretty  ones  on  th'  island,  kind 
er  tropicky  an'  queer,  but  she  wanted  ter  see 
some  hum  ones.  So  I  took  her  out  an'  show 
ed  her  my  beds.  Twas  July,  an'  my  gard'n 
was  like  a  rainbow,  or  a  patch-work  comf  ter 
— all  colors.  She  walked  round  an'  looked  at 
the  roses  an'  pinks  an'  all,  and  smelt  at  'em, 
an'  seemed  pleased. 

"  'But  somehow  I'm  kinder  dis'p'inted  too,' 
she  says ;  '  I  d'  know  why,  but  there's  suthin' 
lackinV  I  jest  kep'  still,  an'  kinder  led  her 
'long  down  the  walk  to  the  corner  'hind  the 
row  o'  box,  an'  fust  she  knowed  she  was  stand- 


180  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

in'  by  the  bed  o'  butterneggs.  She  stood  stock- 
still  a  minnit,  then  she  held  up  both  hands  an' 
cried  out,  'Oh,  Crinthians!' 

"Twas  the  fust  time  she'd  ever  used  the 
'xpression ;  there  never  'd  ben  any  'casion  for 
't,  for  she'd  had  sech  a  quiet  sorter  life.  A'ter 
that  she  was  allus  hangin'  round  that  bed,  like 
a  cat  round  a  valerium  patch,  'tendin'  them 
posies,  weedin'  'em,  wat'rin',  tyin'  'em  up,  pick- 
in'  'em,  wearin'  'em,  an'  keepin'  'em  in  her 
room.  'Twas  a  dreffle  comfort  to  have  her 
with  me;  but 'twa'n't  to  last;  I  see  that 'most 
's  soon  's  she  got  settled  down  with  me.  She 
b'gun  to  droop  an'  wilt  down,  an'  to  look  pind- 
lin'  an'  lean  like,  an'  bleached  out.  I  tried  not 
to  see  it,  an'  talked  's  if  'twas  change  o'  air,  an' 
givin'  up  her  r'tired  life,  an'  's  if  she'd  soon  pick 
up,  an'  grow  to  a  good  old  Knapp  age.  But 
when  she  b'gun  to  c'mplain  o'  feelin'  creepy 
an'  goose-fleshy  an'  shiv'ry,  to  say  her  head 
was  het  up'  an  her  feet  'most  froze,  I  couldn't 
shet  my  eyes  to  't  no  longer;  I  knowed  the 
sympt'ms  too  well;  it  was  the  old  Knapp  en 
emy,  dum'-aigger.  She  was  awful  young  for 
that,  not  forty  yit,  an'  the  Knappses  mostly 


BUTTERNEGGS.  l8l 

lived  to  eighty  or  ninety.  But  I'll  tell  you  how 
I  reas'ned  't  out  to  myself.  The  fam'ly— the 
rest  on  'em — was  all  their  lives  takin'  in  grad- 
jal  like,  stronger  an'  stronger,  's  they  could 
bear  'em,  the  Knapp  b'liefs.  One  a'ter  t'other 
they  got  'em,  like  teeth,  an'  so  they  could  stand 
it.  But  jest  think  on  't  a  minnit,  that  poor 
dear  gal  took  in  all  them  b'liefs— an'  strong 
ones  they  was,  too,  the  strongest  goin'  —  in 
jest  a  few  days'  time.  Foreord'nation,  'lec 
tion,  etarn'l  pun'shment,  the  Whig  platform, 
Congr'ation'l  s'ciety  gov'nment,  United  States 
langwidge,  white-oak  cheese,  butterneggs — in 
short,  the  hull  set  o'  Knapp  ways,  she  took 
'em  all,  's  you  might  say,  't  one  big  swaller. 
No  wonder  they  disagreed  with  her,  an'  left 
her  nothin'  for  't  but  to  take  the  only  one 
left  't  she  hadn't  took  a'ready  —  the  Knapp 
shakes ! 

"I  didn't  say  nothin'  'bout  it  to  her;  I 
never  spoke  o'  the  fam'ly  trubble  't  all,  an'  I 
knowed  she'd  never  heerd  on  't  in  her  life. 
She  kep'  up  an'  'bout  for  a  spell,  but  one  day 
she  come  to  see  me,  an'  she  says,  very  quiet 
an'  carm,  '  Loretty,  'f  ye'll  give  me  the  sarce- 


382  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

pan  I'll  jest  set  some  cam'mile  an'  hardback  to 
steep,  an'  put  a  strip  o'  red  flannel  round  my 
neck  an'  go  to  bed/  My  heart  sunk  'way 
down  's  I  heerd  her;  but  I  see  't  she'd  left  out 
some  o'  the  receipt,  so  I  hoped  'twa'n't  so  bad 
's  I  feared.  But  jest 's  she  was  goin'  inter  her 
bedroom  she  turned  round  an'  says,  'An  meb- 
be  a  peppergrass  poult'ce  on  the  bottoms  o' 
my  feet  would  be  a  good  an'  drawin'  thing,' 
she  says.  There  was  a  lump  in  my  throat, 
but  I  thinks  to  myself,  '  Never  mind,  'f  she 
don't  'lude  to  the  piller.'  An'  I  was  pickin' 
the  peppergrass  an'  wond'rin'  if  'twas  the 
smell  o'  that  't  made  my  eyes  so  wet  an' 
smarty,  when  she  calls  me  softly,  an'  she  says, 
'  Sister,  I'm  dreffle  sorry  to  trubble  ye,  but  'f 
you  could  give  me  another  piller,  a  hard,  thin 
one,  I'd  be  'bleeged.'  Then  I  knowed  'twas 
all  over,  an'  I  never  had  a  grain  o'  hope 
ag'in. 

"You'll  'xcuse  me,  ladies,  from  talkin'  much 
more  'bout  that  time.  I  think  on't  'nough, 
dear  knows;  I  dream  on't,  an'  wake  with  my 
piller  all  wet,  but  'tain't  good  for  me  to  say 
too  much 'bout  it.  She  wa'n't  sick  long;  her 


BUTTERNEGGS.  183 

dum'-aigger  wa'n't  very  chronic,  's  the  doc 
tors  says,  but  sharp  an'  quick.  An'  jest  three 
weeks  from  the  day  she  come  home  to  me 
she'd  added  one  more  to  the  long  list  o'  things 
she'd  had  to  larn  in  sech  a  lim'ted  per'od,  poor 
gal,  an'  took  in  the  Knapp  way  o'  dyin'. 

"An'  'twas  a  quiet  way,  peace'ble,  still  like, 
not  makin'  no  great  fuss  'bout  it,  but  ready  an' 
willin'.  She  didn't  want  much  waitin'  on, 
only  fresh  posies — butterneggs  o'  course — in 
the  wineglass  on  the  stand  by  her  bed;  an'  ye 
may  be  sure  she  allus  had  'em  there.  An'  I 
picked  all  I  had,  an'  stuck  'em  in  pitchers  an' 
mugs  an'  bowls,  an'  stood  'em  on  the  mantel 
shelf,  an'  on  the  chest  o'  drawers,  an'  any  place 
't  would  hold  'em,  an'  the  room  was  all  lit  up 
with  'em — an'  with  her  hope  an'  faith  an'  pa 
tient  ways  too — an'  so  she  seemed  to  pass 
right  through  a  shinin'  yeller  path  till  we  lost 
sight  on  her,  where  it  ended,  I  ain't  the  least- 
est  doubt,  in  the  gold'n  streets  o'  heav'n. 

"But  I  'xpect  to  see  her  ag'in  'fore  very 
long.  There's  more  o'  the  fam'ly  t'other  side 
than  there  is  here  now,  an'  when  I  think  o'  all 
the  tribe  o'  Knappses  in  that  land  'cross  the 


184  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

river,  why,  I  think  I'd  be  kinder  glad  to  go 
there  myself;  'twould  be  'most  like  goin'  to 
Thanksgivin'  't  the  old  homestid.  An'  I  was 
sayin'  to  Marthy  Hustid  yist'day  —  she  looks 
a'ter  me  now,  ye  know — 't  I  had  a  kinder 
creepy,  goose-fleshy,  shiv'ry  feelin'  sometimes, 
't  my  head  was  all  het  up,  an'  my  feet  'most 
froze,  an'  I  guessed  she  better  be  lookin'  at  the 
yarb  bags  up  garr't,  an'  layin'  in  a  little  red 
flann'l,  in  case  o'  any  sickness  in  the  fam'ly. 
An', 'Marthy,'  I  says, ' I  s'pose  there's  a  harder 
piller  in  the  house  'n  the  one  I'm  usin' — a  thin 
one,  you  know.'  An'  I  am  glad  the  butter- 
neggs  is  comin'  in  seas'n." 

As  we  came  away  from  the  little  brown 
house  and  drove  along  towards  Greenwich 
we  were  silent  for  a  little.  Then  I  exclaimed : 
"Jane  Benedict,  how  much  truth  is  there  in 
that  wild  tale  ?  Was  her  sister  shipwrecked, 
and  did  she  appear  after  many  days  ?  For 
pity's  sake  enlighten  me,  for  my  head  is  '  all 
het  up,'  as  Aunt  Loretty  would  say!" 

"She  was  an  only  child,"  answered  Jane, 
calmly,  as  she  touched  Billy  lightly  with  the 
whip.  "I  believe  her  father  was  a  sailor,  and 


BUTTERNEGGS.  185 

was  lost  at  sea.  She  herself  lived  as  house 
keeper  for  many  years  with  Dr.  Lounsbury,  of 
Stamford,  who  wrote  that  queer  book  on  he 
redity — Heirship,  I  think  he  called  it.  Perhaps 
she  imbibed  some  of  his  ideas." 


VI. 
DEACON  PHEBY'S   SELFISH  NATUR. 

"Sooth  I  would  be  a  woman  for  your  sake, 
A  foolish  girl,  an  it  would  give  you  ease" 

Old  Play. 


DEACON   PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR. 

WE  call  it  the  Indian  burying-ground.  It  is 
a  piece  of  old  pine  forest  along  the  bank  of 
Gale  River,  near  the  spot  where  that  wild  and 
beautiful  mountain  stream  joins  its  sister  wa 
ters  of  Pond  Brook. 

It  seems  full  of  graves,  for  there  are  mounds 
of  all  sizes  and  forms,  where,  I  suppose,  lie 
buried  ancient  trees.  But  there  was  never 
burial-place  like  this,  so  filled  with  color  and 
light  and  life.  In  June  all  the  lovely  wild 
flowers  of  that  Northern  spring  seem  to  gath 
er  there ;  and  each  mound  is  a  heap  of  soft 
greenness,  with  bits  of  bright  color  here  and 
there.  The  creamy  blossoms  of  the  bunch- 
berry  lie  close  together  among  their  leaves, 
making  a  rich  mat  of  white  and  green;  the 
soft,  light  plumes  of  tiarella  are  waving  there, 
white,  flecked  sometimes  with  salmon-pink; 
the  cinque-foil  creeps  in  and  out  among  the 
other  plants,  and  shows  its  yellow  stars;  the 


190  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

little  smilacina  lifts  its  spike  of  tiny,  fragrant 
blossoms;  and  the  delicate,  pink-veined  flow 
ers  of  the  oxalis  nestle  shyly  among  their  tre 
foil  leaves.  There,  too,  the  clintonia  opens  its 
pale  yellow  blossoms,  and  straw-lilies  swing 
their  slender  bells ;  the  twisted-stalk  hangs  its 
rosy  cups;  the  pure  white  starflower  stands 
lightly  on  its  slender  stem,  in  its  circle  of 
leaves;  and  Indian-hemp  shakes  its  pink  coral 
drops.  There  are  red  and  white  clover,  Solo 
mon's -seal,  the  small  yellow  sorrel,  golden- 
ragwort,  buttercups,  gold-thread,  and  violets. 
All  these,  and  more  too,  I  have  seen  and  gath 
ered  among  those  graves  in  a  Franconia  June. 
Then  there  are  feathery,  graceful  ferns;  soft, 
rich  mosses  of  varied  tints,  from  deepest,  dark 
est  hue,  through  olive  and  golden  brown,  to 
palest  sea-green ;  and  there  are  lichens  of  quiet 
gray  and  soft  drab  touched  with  scarlet  and 
gold;  grasses  and  sedges  wave  and  sway  in 
the  breeze;  and  the  little  wood -rushes  raise 
their  pretty  brown  flowers  from  among  their 
downy  leaves.  Had  ever  graves  a  richer  cov 
ering  ? 
And  there  is  music  there.  The  wind  among 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        [91 

the  tall  pines  is  like  an  organ  sometimes,  and 
the  river  and  brook  murmur  and  babble  and 
rush  and  tinkle.  One  can  hear  the  whir  and 
hum  and  chirp  and  buzz  of  insect  life;  and 
there  is  always  the  singing  of  the  birds. 

And  there  are  homes  for  the  living  amid 
these  very  mounds.  The  shy  hermit -thrush 
builds  her  nest  there  in  the  grass,  and  lays  her 
eggs  of  turquoise  blue ;  the  Maryland  yellow- 
throat  makes  her  little  home  at  foot  of  tussock 
of  sedge  or  tuft  of  tall  fern,  weaving  together 
the  blades  or  leaves  over  the  top  to  roof  her 
bower;  the  song  and  vesper  sparrows  hide 
their  tiny  dwellings  in  the  grass  along  the 
river-side,  and  the  vireos  swing  their  ham 
mocks  overhead. 

All  this  is  in  June,  the  fair  month  in  which  I 
always  seek  these  Northern  hills.  But  I  know 
that  this  burying-spot  is  lovely  in  all  seasons. 
The  summer  opens  the  buds  of  the  wild  yel 
low-lilies  along  the  river-bank;  the  meadow- 
rue  is  then  a  mass  of  pure,  soft,  white  bloom ; 
and  golden-daisies,  with  dark  centre  and  shin 
ing  rays,  make  brilliant  spots  of  color  there. 
Then  autumn  spreads  her  gorgeous  robe  over 


192  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

those  mounds,  and  they  are  gay  with  red  and 
yellow,  russet,  wine,  brown,  and  orange.  And 
last  of  all  comes  the  pure  snow,  and  lays  a 
soft,  fleecy  covering  over  all. 

There  are  no  stately  marble  monuments 
here,  or  cold  white  tablets;  but  at  the  head 
and  foot  of  many  a  mound  lies  a  granite  block 
or  bowlder,  softened  and  made  beautiful  by 
moss  and  vine  and  tiny  flower.  Or  a  pine, 
fir,  or  hemlock  rears  itself— a  tall,  straight  col 
umn —  near  some  quiet  grave.  No  labored 
epitaphs,  no  words  which  tell  of  hope,  of  res 
urrection,  of  immortality,  are  written  there; 
nor  are  they  needed.  The  bursting  chrysalis, 
setting  free  the  bright-winged  butterfly;  the 
little  egg,  so  still  and  waxen  white,  but  hold 
ing  within  color  and  motion  and  song,  which 
shall  take  wings  and  soar  upward  some  bright 
June  day;  the  creeping,  sluggish  caterpillar 
patiently  spinning  its  shroud,  or  digging  its 
own  grave  in  some  quiet  spot,  there  to  lie 
through  that  long  northern  winter  a  frozen, 
dead  thing,  but  ready  with  the  warmth  of 
early  summer  to  wake  and  rise  and  fly  in  the 
soft  sunny  air,  a  gay,  fluttering  moth  with 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        193 

feathered  wings;  the  buried  seed;  the  wak 
ing  flower;  the  bursting  bud — all  these  are 
living  lessons,  and  require  no  letters  cut  into 
cold  stone  to  make  their  meaning  clearer. 

No  massive  wall  or  stiff  iron  fence  shuts  in 
this  God's-acre  of  ours.  On  one  side  a  bank 
slopes  down  into  a  grassy  meadow  through 
which  Gale  River  comes  rushing  and  dashing 
over  its  rocky  bed;  another  side  is  border 
ed  by  Pond  Brook,  a  crystal-clear  mountain 
streamlet;  along  the  third  is  a  wild  hedge 
row  of  trees,  shrubs,  and  tall  herbs  —  wild- 
cherry,  with  tassels  of  bitter-sweet  scent; 
hazel,  with  odd  green  tufts  which  mean  to 
be  nuts  some  day ;  shad-blow,  with  leaves 
of  bluish  green,  white  flowers,  or  green  ber 
ries  waiting  for  the  sun  to  make  them  red; 
quivering  poplar  with  slender  white  trunks; 
mountain  maple,  birch,  and  alder;  and  on  the 
fourth  side  runs  a  quiet  country  road,  along 
which  pass  hay -wagons  with  their  fragrant 
freight,  the  farmer's  cart,  the  roomy  chaise; 
where  merry  children  go  to  and  from  the  vil 
lage  school ;  but  where  is  no  sound  of  hurry 
ing  crowds,  of  traffic,  of  busy,  bustling  city  life. 


194  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

It  was  in  this  peaceful  spot,  on  a  fair  June 
morning,  that  I  first  saw  the  hero  of  my 
sketch.  He  was  very  unlike  a  hero  as  1  saw 
him  then.  A  strange,  nondescript  figure,  I 
did  not  at  first  know  if  it  were  man  or  wom 
an  ;  for  he  wore  over  his  rough  brown  coat  a 
small  plaid  shawl  of  faded  red  and  black, 
folded  cornerwise  with  the  point  behind, 
and  two  ends  crossing  over  the  breast;  a 
long  blue-and-white  checked  apron  was  tied 
about  the  waist,  and  hung  nearly  to  his  an 
kles,  almost  hiding  the  shabby,  patched  trous 
ers;  his  yellow  hair  was  long,  and  fell  over 
his  shoulders  straight  and  lank,  and  upon  it 
he  wore  a  broad  -  brimmed  hat  of  coarse 
straw,  tied  down  over  the  ears  by  a  dingy  blue 
ribbon. 

On  a  mossy  stone  between  two  mounds, 
one  long  and  narrow,  the  other  looking  like  a 
child's  grave,  sat  this  quaint  creature.  It  was 
knitting,  and  did  not  look  up  as  I  passed,  but 
terfly  net  in  hand,  and  I  tried  not  to  stare  too 
curiously  at  the  singular  being.  But  as  soon 
as  I  went  in-doors  I  asked  eager  questions  as 
to  its  identity. 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        195 

"  Oh,  that's  only  Deacon  Pheby,"  said  Eu 
nice  Ann.  "I  thought  you'd  seen  him  afore. 
His  folks  used  to  live  round  here,  they  say ; 
the  Knightses  they  was.  His  mother  was  the 
Widder  Knight,  and  there  was  two  young 
ones,  a  boy  'n'  a  girl.  They  moved  'way 
from  here  'fore  I  come,  an'  I  never  heerd  on 
'em  till  about  a  year  ago,  when  this  queer- 
lookin'  feller  come  along,  an'  said  he  was  the 
Widder  Knight's  boy  growed  up.  An'  folks 
says  he  really  is  ;  but  seems  's  if  suthin'  's 
come  over  him.  For  they  say  he  used  to  be 
a  likely,  smart  boy,  full  o'  sperrits,  cuttin'  up 
an'  kitin'  round,  fishin'  an'  gunnin'  an'  trappin' 
an'  sech.  But  he  come  back  this  way,  dress 
ed  up  in  women's  duds,  an'  callin'  himself 
Pheby ;  says  his  ma's  dead  an'  gone,  an'  the 
girl,  too ;  but  he  don't  tell  much  about  him 
self,  where  he's  been,  or  what  he's  been  doin'. 
He's  a  good,  pious  sort,  too;  carries  a  Test'- 
ment  round  in  his  apern  pocket,  an'  'most  al- 
lers  has  a  hymn-book  too,  an'  reads  'em  a  lot. 
He's  allers  pleasant-spoken,  an'  dreffle  nice  to 
dumb  creeters  an'  young  ones,  an'  partikerly 
to  old  folks,  an'  so  they've  got  to  callin' 


196  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

him  Deacon,  an'  every  one  in  Francony  has 
a  good  word  for  Deacon  Pheby,  crazy  's 
he  be." 

This  was  all  she,  Uncle  Eben,  or  any  one 
else  could  tell  me  of  the  strange  man.  And  it 
was  only  from  himself,  after  frequent  meetings 
in  the  Indian  burying-ground,  where  he  was 
a  daily  visitor,  that  I  learned  at  last  his  pathetic 
story.  I  had  watched  him  for  days  before  I 
spoke  to  him.  He  seemed  so  unconscious  of 
my  presence  —  even  when  I  lingered  near, 
looking  for  wild  flowers,  butterflies,  and  moths 
— so  absorbed  in  his  own  occupations,  that  I 
shrank  from  intruding.  He  always  brought 
his  knitting — a  stocking  of  coarse  blue  yarn — 
but  it  did  not  grow  very  fast.  For  his  time 
and  attention  were  all  devoted  to  the  tending 
of  the  two  mounds  between  which  he  always 
sat.  He  kept  them  so  neat  and  bright,  remov 
ing  each  dry,  dead  leaf,  picking  up  the  tassels 
of  birch  or  willow  fallen  there,  taking  away 
the  leafless  bramble  straying  across  the  sod, 
lifting  and  supporting  any  little  plant  beaten 
down  by  rain  or  wind.  In  a  dry  season  he 
often  brought  water  in  an  old  tin  pail  to 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.         197 

refresh  the  drooping  flowers,  and  so  his  graves 
were  always  fresh  and  green. 

Our  acquaintance  began  one  day,  as  I  vent 
ured  to  swing  my  net  around  his  very  head  in 
pursuit  of  a  white  admiral  butterfly,  the  first 
of  the  season,  by  his  remarking,  pleasantly, 
"This  's  a  real  nice  butterflyey,  gravesy  kind 
of  a  place,  ain't  it,  ma'am  ?" 

This  broke  the  ice,  and  we  were  soon  friends. 
But  it  was  not  on  that  first  day,  nor  for  many 
days  afterwards,  that  I  gathered  all  his  story. 

"I  don't  rec'lect  father;  he  was  Pel'tiah 
Knight,  from  Bungay  way.  He  died  when 
we  young  ones  was  babies.  Mother  never 
said  no  great  about  him,  an'  I  guess  he  wa'n't 
much  to  speak  on,  An'  the  fust  thing  1  rec' 
lect  was  livin'  with  mother  in  the  little  house 
out  by  Sincler's  Mill.  How  we  come  to  be 
there,  whether  father'd  worked  there  afore  he 
died  or  what  all,  I  can't  say,  for  I  don't  know. 
Tennerate,  there  we  was,  jest  mother  an'  Phe- 
by  an'  me." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  gave  one  of  his  quick, 
odd  glances  up  into  the  tree-tops,  patted  soft 
ly  with  one  hand  the  longest  mound,  and 


198  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

then  went  on:  "Yes,  ye  might's  well  know 
fust  's  last,  I  ain't  reely  Pheby ;  I'm  t'other 
one.  We  was  twins — boy  an'  gal.  I  was 
Phebus,  an'  she  was  Pheby.  There  was  lots 
o'  twins  in  Francony  'bout  that  time,  an'  some 
in  Lisbon,  an'  down  Lincoln  way.  An'  'twas 
kinder  the  fash'n  to  name  'em  names  that 
sounded  's  if  they  b'longed  together — names 
that  hitched  well,  ye  know.  There  was  Le- 
on'das  Peabody's  babies — they  died  young — 
they  was  both  gals,  an'  they  was  named  Dusty 
an'  Gusty,  short  for  Dusdemony  an'  Augusty, 
ye  see.  An'  Mis'  Deac'n  Quimby,  out  Sugar 
Hill  way,  her  pair  o'  boys  was  Val'ntine  an' 
Orson,  out  of  a  story-book;  an'  there  was  El 
der  Bowles's  Judah  an' Judy ;  an'  Dock  Oakes's 
Silly  an'  Quilly,  arter  the  Bible  folks,  Priscilly 
an' Aquilly,  ye  know;  an'  Mis'  Bildad  Richard 
son,  she  called  hers — one  o'  each  kind  she  had 
— Polios  an'  Polly.  They  growed  up,  an'  I 
rec'lect  how  the  boys  an'  gals  in  meetin'  used 
to  look  over  to  Mis'  Richardson's  pew  an' 
laugh  like,  when  they  was  singin'  that  good 
old  hymn  that  goes  to  '  Tell  Aunt  Rhody  the 
gray  goose's  dead,'  or  'Mercy,  oh,' — • 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.         199 

'  Some  for  Poll  an' 
Some  for  Polios, 
Some  for  Cephas, 
None  agree.' 

"  Well,  's  I  said  afore,  we  was  named  Phe- 
bus  an'  Pheby.  We  was  twins,  an'  favored 
each  other  in  looks,  but  we  wa'n't  a  mite  alike 
in  ways,  she  an'  me.  For  I  was  jest  a  boy, 
with  a  real  selfish  boy  natur.  I  set  by  fishin' 
an'  shootin'  an'  trappin'.  I  was  allers  out 
doors,  runnin'  an  playin',  hollerin'  an'  cuttin' 
up,  full  of  my  play  an'  my  tricks,  an'  not  much 
use  to  mother  or  comfort  to  her,  I  callalate. 
But  Pheby,  she  was  jest  a  soft,  lovin',  cuddlin' 
little  thing,  allers  hangin'  round  mother,  coaxin' 
an'  huggin'  her,  an'  keepin'  close  to  her — a  real 
house-cosset  of  a  gal.  I  don't  think  there  was 
anything  so  dreffle  wicked  in  me.  I  was  jest 
a  self-seekin'  boy,  an'  I  never  once  thought 
mother  or  anybody  expected  or  wanted  kiss- 
in'  an'  cuddlin'  an'  takin'  care  on,  so  'twas  all 
left  to  Pheby,  an'  she  done  it.  Mother — well, 
she  was  jest  a  mother,  the  real  kind:  there 
ain't  but  one  real  sort,  ye  know,  though  there's 
lots  o'  make-bleeve  ones.  I  can't  put  her  into 


2OO  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

talk,  somehow — you  can't  never  with  moth 
ers,  ye  know — she  was — well,  she  was  jest — 
mother.  I  knowed  what  she  was  allers,  's 
soon  's  I  knowed  anything;  I  felt  it  inside  the 
hull  time,  when  I  was  fishin'  or  playin'  ball,  or 
settin'  traps,  but  I  s'pose  I  never  showed  it 
much  in  them  days,  for  I  was  dreffle  selfish,  's 
I  tell  ye.  But,  true  's  I  live,  I  jest  liked  moth 
er."  He  patted  the  long  green  mound  again, 
smiled  a  queer,  tearful  kind  of  smile,  and  went 
on:  "But  seein'  's  we  was  so  diffunt,  an'  I 
was  sech  a  rough,  ha'sh  kind  of  a  boy,  an' 
Pheby  sech  a  lovin',  coaxin'  little  creetur,  'twas 
nat'ral — course  'twas — that  mother  should  like 
her  best,  set  by  her  a  heap  more.  An'  she 
done  it.  She  never  could  bear  to  have  her 
out  of  her  sight;  she  wanted  to  see  her  an' 
hear  her  every  blessed  minute.  I  might  be 
off  all  day  long,  wadin'  Tucker  Brook,  or  fish- 
in'  down  Gale  River  in  the  spring,  or  shootin' 
pa'tridges  an'  squir'ls  in  the  fall,  or  trappin' 
rabbits  an'  minks  in  the  winter,  an'  mother 
didn't  make  no  fuss  over  me  when  I  come 
home.  But  let  Pheby  go  blueberryin'  with 
the  Quimby  gals,  or  over  to  Almy  Appleby's 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        201 

to  play,  or  even  out  behind  the  house  to  pick 
dandelion  greens,  an'  mother  was  allers  wor- 
ryin'  an'  frettin'  an'  watchin'.  She'd  go  to 
the  winder  an'  peek  out,  an'  she'd  stand  in  the 
door  an'  watch,  an'  she'd  walk  down  to  the 
gate,  an'  she'd  call  'Pheby!  Pheby!'  long  be 
fore  'twas  time  to  think  of  her  comin'  home. 

"  When  I  think  o'  mother,  seems  's  if  I  'most 
allers  see  her  that  one  way — standin'  on  the 
door-step  lookin'  out,  with  her  hand  held  up 
over  her  eyes  to  keep  the  sunshine  out,  lookin' 
an'  lookin',  kinder  pale  an'  frightened  like, 
watchin'  an'  waitin'  for  her  little  gal.  She 
was  allers  kinder  white  an'  thin,  an'  I  tell  ye 
she  could  put  a  dreffle  sight  o'  lookin'- for  an' 
scariness  an'  waitin'  an'  lovin'  into  them  eyes 
o'  hern.  They  was  diffunt  eyes  from  any  I 
ever  see;  dreffle  soft  an' — oh,  I  don't  know 
what  they  was,  not  even  what  color.  They 
wa'n't  brown  exackly,  nor  blue  quite,  nor  gray 
nuther;  they  was  jest  mother  color,  I  suppose. 
I  tell  you  I  liked  mother. 

"An'  Pheby,  she  suited  mother  another  way 
too;  she  was  kinder  pious.  Mother  was  real 
religious — raised  that  way.  Her  folks  was 


2O2  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

all  perfessors,  'way  back  's  fur 's  she  knowed 
about  'em.  She  come  from  Haverill,  an'  her 
gran'f  ther  was  deacon  in  the  Congr'ational 
church  there.  I  didn't  take  much  notice  on  it 
then ;  thought  mothers  was  allers  pious ;  'twas 
one  of  the  things  made  'em  mothers.  If  she 
hadn't  been  so  I'd  'a'  thought  'twas  all  right^ 
that  mothers  hadn't  oughter  be.  But  seems 
diffunt  now,  an'  I  like  to  think  on't.  I  can 
hear  her  v'ice  lots  o'  times  when  I'm  settin' 
here — kind  of  a  lonesome  v'ice  'twas — singin' 
about  her  kitchen  work  or  over  her  sewin', 
'How  lost  was  my  condition,'  'Lord,  in  the 
mornin','  'Oh,  happy  are  they!'  'The  Lord 
into  his  gardin  comes,'  'Broad  is  the  road/ 
an'  'Whatvar'ous  hindrances.'  Some  of  them 
hymns  was  pretty  scary  an'  sollum,  I  can  tell 
ye,  for  a  young  one  to  hear  about  bedtime. 
But  my!  we  never  minded  it  a  speck  when 
we  heerd  'em  in  mother's  kinder  softly  v'ice 
to  them  queer  old  moth'ry  tunes.  Why,  when 
I  had  the  earache  or  a  stiff  neck,  I'd  drop  off 
to  sleep  in  a  jiffy  to  sech  hymns  as  'Stop, 
poor  sinner,  stop  an'  think,'  or  'My  thoughts 
on  awful  subjicks  roll,'  if 'twas  mother  sung 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        203 

'em;  and  if  sometimes  I  heerd  a  word  that 
scaret  me  a  minute  about  chains  an'  brimstun 
an'  groans  an'  sech,  why,  the  next  minute 
'twould  be  '  His  lovin'-kindness,  His  lovin'- 
kindness,  His  lovin'-kindness,  oh,  how  sweet!' 
in  that  kinder  shakin',  soft,  comfortin'  v'ice  o' 
mother's,  an'  I'd  see  'twas  all  right,  an'  I'd  drop 
off  agin.  But  I  was  jest  a  boy,  bent  on  my 
own  'musements,  an'  didn't  think  o'  bein'  pi 
ous  myself;  I  left  that  to  mother  an'  Pheby. 
For  Pheby  took  to  it  nat'ral.  She  1'arnt  off 
hymns  by  the  yard,  an'  she  said  hull  chapters 
o'  Scripter,  an'  she  allers  put  away  her  play 
things  Sat'day  nights  without  bein'  told,  an' 
she  read  tracts  bound  up  together  with  leath 
er  covers,  an'  Doddridge's  Rise  'n'  Progress. 
She'd  set  still  for  hours  over  a  life  of  a  mis 
sionary  an'  his  wives,  an'  like  it,  too.  So 
she  was  a  dreffle  comfort  to  mother  that 
way  's  well  's  others;  an'  bimeby  she  went 
through  all  the  ne'ssary  things — conviction 
an'  convarsion  an'  all  the  orthodox  'range- 
ments — an'  become  a  perfessor  in  the  Con- 
gr'ational  church  over  to  Francony.  An' 
mother  was  so  tickled  that  Sunday,  but  'twas 


204  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

kind  of  a  sollum  tickle,  an'  I  felt  lonesome  an* 
left  out — for  I  was  a  mean-sperrited  boy — 
when  she  an'  Pheby  set  on  the  door-step  af 
ter  supper,  an'  talked,  an'  read  the  Bible,  an' 
sung, 

'  Do  thou  assist  a  feeble  worm 
The  great  engagement  to  perform.' 

Arter  that  them  two  was  more  together  'n 
ever,  an'  went  off  by  theirselves,  an'  staid  in 
their  bedroom,  an'  mother  looked  at  me  real 
sorrerful.  An'  Pheby,  she  talked  right  out 
plain  to  me  about  my  sins,  an'  asked  me  real 
pers'nal  questions  out  o'  the  village  hymn- 
book,  like,  'Say,  have  you  a  arm  like  brass 
that  you  His  will  oppose?'  an'  'Is  this  the 
kind  return  ?'  An'  she'd  say  pieces  out  o'  the 
last  end  o'  the  cat'chism  about  them  pious 
boys  in  Scripter,  how 

'Young  King  Josiah,  that  blest  youth, 
He  sought  the  Lord  an'  loved  the  truth,1 

an'  about 

'  That  blessed  child,  young  Timothy, 
Did  Tarn  God's  word  most  needfully; 
It  seemed  to  be  his  recreation, 
Which  made  him  wise  unto  salvation/ 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        205 

"So  I  felt  kinder  'shamed,  an'  staid  off  an1 
fished  more'n  ever,  an'  showed  pretty  plain 
that,  's  Pheby  said,  I  had  a  flinty  heart,  an' 
was  a  stubbun  soul.  I  was  a  dreffle  bad  boy, 
ye  see,  an'  even  if  I'd  sometimes  make  up  my 
mind  to  be  convarted  an'  a  perfessor,  jest  to 
please  mother  an'  take  that  sorry  look  out  of 
her  eyes,  why,  the  next  minute  when  I  was 
fishin',  an'  felt  a  twitch  at  my  line,  an'  struck 
a  two-pounder,  or  what  felt  like  one,  an'  he 
got  off,  why,  I'd  forgit  all  about  meetin's  an' 
mother  an'  Scripter,  an'  stay  off  all  day  long, 
an'  night  too  'most,  to  git  that  fish.  An'  so 
'twas — so  'twas. 

"But  bimeby  there  come  a  time  when 
mother  decided  to  move  'way  from  Sincler's 
Mill,  an'  go  up  into  Canady,  where  she'd  got 
a  little  piece  o'  land  that  had  come  to  her  from 
her  folks,  an'  see  if  we  couldn't  do  better  up 
there. 

"  So  we  packed  up  our  duds  an'  started.  I 
never  shall  forgit 's  long  's  I  live  how  the  old 
place  looked  's  I  left  it  that  day,  an'  how  nice 
an'  snug  an'  quiet  little  Francony  'peared  as 
we  saw  it  ahind  us,  ridin'  towards  Littleton 


206  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

that  mornin'.  I  was  jest  a  boy  then,  full  o* 
my  games  an'  my  fishin'  an'  trappin'.  I  never 
was  a  real  boy  agin.  Twas  a  dreffle  jour 
ney,  'mong  strangers,  'way  up  into  that  wild 
part  o'  Canady.  We  had  a  heap  o'  trouble  to 
find  mother's  land,  an'  when  we  did  it  was 
'way  off  in  the  woods,  fur  from  any  folks, 
with  jest  a  shackly  old  log  house  on  it.  We 
got  a  man  't  the  nearest  town  to  drive  us 
there  an'  fetch  our  things,  an'  v/hen  he  driv 
off  an'  left  us,  seemed  's  if  we  was  outside  the 
world  an'  all  alone.  I  can't  rec'lect  much 
about  that  time,  the  gettin'  there  an'  all,  's 
you'll  see  when  I  tell  ye  what  happened. 
We'd  been  trav'lin'  in  the  cars  with  a  lot  of 
em'grunts,  dirty,  furrern  kinder  folks,  an'  I 
s'pose  we  ketched  it  o'  them.  'Tennerate  we 
hadn't  hardly  got  into  that  lonesome,  empty 
little  cubby-house  afore  we  all  three  took  sick, 
and  found  out — mother  knowed  it;  she'd  seed 
it  afore — we  all  had  that  awful  thing,  small 
pox. 

"We  was  all  alone;  we  couldn't  go  for 
help  or  doctors.  If  we  could  'a'  done  it,  meb- 
be  we  wouldn't,  we  was  so  afraid  they'd  carry 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        207 

us  off  an'  shet  us  up  somewhere  for  havin' 
that  dreffle  complaint  about  us.  So  we  jest 
done  's  well 's  we  could,  dosin'  with  ginger- 
tea  an'  boneset  an'  sage  an'  saffron,  for  we'd 
fetched  our  yarbs  along,  o'  course.  I  wa'n't 
's  sick  's  t'others:  I  guess  I  wouldn't  be,  for 
somebody  had  to  keep  up  an'  do.  Mother 
was  awful  sick  an'  crazy,  an'  her  eyes  got  in  a 
dreffle  state ;  and  Pheby,  she  jest  went  into  a 
sorter  stupid,  sleepy  kinder  way,  an'  I  couldn't 
rouse  her  up  for  nothin',  not  to  eat  or  drink 
or  take  her  physic.  An'  'twa'n't  more  'n  a  few 
days  when  she  fell  faster  asleep,  an'  I  couldn't 
do  nothin'  to  wake  her  up,  an'  poor  pritty  lit 
tle  Pheby  was  dead  's  a  nail. 

"Dear!  dear!  dear!  There  was  mother  all 
het  up,  an'  wild,  an'  'most  blind,  not  knowin' 
me  nor  nobody;  little  Pheby  dead  an'  cold; 
an'  me  nothin'  but  a  boy  o'  fourteen,  an'  a  real 
selfish  boy  too,  to  do  for  'em.  Don't  make 
me  tell  all  that — how  I  dug  that  little  grave 
an'  all,  how  I  put  her  away,  an'  had  the  fun'ral, 
an'  was  sexton  an'  bearers  an'  minister  an' 
mourners  an'  all  my  own  self.  It's  much  's  I 
can  do  to  tell  the  rest  an'  fact  is  I  can't  rec'lect 


208  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

jest  what  I  done,  for  I  wa'n't  very  healthy 
myself  jest  then,  an'  my  head  ached  to  split  all 
the  time. 

"Fust  I  thought  mother  was  goin'  to  die 
too,  but  bimeby  I  see  she  was  gittin'  a  mite 
better,  all  except  her  eyes;  but  she  couldn't 
see  no  more'n  a  mole.  Then  I  begun  to  think 
how  I'd  ever  tell  her  that  Pheby  was  dead,  her 
little  gal  that  she  set  by  so,  an'  no  one  left 
to  her  but  me,  a  onconvarted,  selfish-natur'd 
boy. 

"I  d'know  when  it  fust  come  in  my  head 
what  I'd  do.  Mebbe  'twas  when  I  see  she 
was  stun -blind  an'  sorter  feeble-minded  yit. 
Anyhow,  it  seemed  to  come  right  over  me 
someways  that  I  mustn't  let  on  jest  then  that 
'twas  Pheby  't  was  dead,  but  make  her  think 
'twas  jest  only  me. 

"Well,  'twa'n't  so  dreffle  hard  at  fust.  I 
put  on  a  caliker  bed-gown  o'  Pheby's  in  case 
she  took  hold  on  me,  an'  I  used  to  bring  her 
doses  an'  drinks,  an'  boost  up  her  head  to  take 
'em,  an'  she  never  took  no  notice  who  done 
it.  But  one  day  arter  I'd  laid  her  down,  she 
reached  out  an'  took  hold  o'  my  sleeve,  an'  she 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        209 

says,  real  faint  an'  whisp'ry,  '  Who  is  it  ?'  I 
waited  jest  a  minnit  to  swaller  afore  I  said  it, 
then  I  says  right  out,  'It's  Pheby,  mother.' 
Somehow — it's  queer,  ain't  it  ? — I  never'd  told 
a  real  up  an'  down  lie  afore  in  all  my  born 
days.  Mother  didn't  like  lyin' ;  an'  somehow, 
with  all  my  dreffle  sins,  I  hadn't  'quired  that. 
So  I  s'pose  my  v'ice  was  kinder  shaky;  but 
mother  never  noticed  nothin';  she  was  so 
pleased  she  pulled  me  down  an'  kissed  me,  an' 
kep'  whisp'rin',  'My  little  gal!  my  own  little 
gal!'  An'  arter  that  she  dropped  off  to  sleep 
like  a  baby.  I  set  there  by  her,  for  she'd  got 
hold  o'  my  hand,  an'  I  tried  not  to  think  too 
hard,  for  my  head  wa'n't  jest  right  yit.  But  I 
couldn't  scasly  help  wond'rin'how  long  I  could 
keep  it  up,  an'  when  she'd  find  out.  An'  then 
— for  I  was  allers  a  mean,  self-seekin'  young 
one — once  in  a  while  I'd  think  how  she  hadn't 
said  a  word  about  me  (the  real  me,  I  mean), 
or  whether  I  was  round  too.  Jest  's  if  she 
could  be  expected  to  when  her  heart  was  full 
o'  Pheby!  An'  she  didn't  for  a  good  while. 
She  was  jest  like  a  baby  —  eat  an'  slept,  an' 
didn't  trouble  herself  about  nothin'.  '  You're 
14 


210  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

hoarse  an'  croupy,  Pheby,'  she  says  one  time, 
an'  I  answered  't  I  hadn't  got  my  v'ice  back 
yit  arter  bein'  sick.  But  one  day  's  I  was  sop- 
pin'  her  face  to  cool  it  off,  she  seemed  to  rouse 
up  a  mite,  an'  she  says,  '  Pheby,  where's  your 
brother  ?' 

"I  couldn't  speak  out  jest  't  fust,  an'  afore 
I  done  it,  she  says  agin,  '  Pheby !  Pheby ! 
where's  Phebus,  I  say  ?'  I  put  my  head  down 
on  the  bed,  for  I  was  afeared  I  should  bu'st 
right  out  cryin',  an'  afore  I'd  swallered  'nough 
to  speak,  mother  says, '  Oh,  Pheby,  he's  dead !' 
An'  I  heerd  her  kinder  sob,  an'  afore  I  knowed 
it  I  found  I  was  goin'  to  up  an'  tell  her  not  to 
cry,  for  I  wa'n't  no  more  dead  'n  she  was. 
But  next  minute  she  says,  wipin'  off  the  tears: 
'  My  poor  boy !  my  poor  boy !  I  hope  he  was 
prepared!  But  oh,  my  little  gal,  how  glad 
your  ma  is  that  it  wa'n't  you !' 

"Well,  I  was  that  on  wholesome  an'  selfish 
that  I  felt  a  speck  jealous  at  fust.  But  I  see  I 
must  jest  grit  up,  for  I'd  got  a  big  job  o'  work; 
for,  for  all  I  could  see,  I'd  got  to  be  Pheby  now 
the  rest  o'  my  days,  or  mother's  days,  anyway. 
An'  arter  all 's  been  said  an'  done,  she  did  sob 


DEACON  PHEBY  S  SELFISH  NATUR.  2 1  I 

at  fust  when  she  heerd  I  was  dead.  I  tell  ye, 
rec'lectin'  that  sob  's  been  a  big  comfort  to 
me  lots  o'  times.  For,  ye  see,  I  liked  mother. 
Well,  she  didn't  git  her  sight  back,  an'  some 
how  she  wa'n't  never  so  clear  in  her  head  ar- 
ter  her  sickness,  or  mebbe  I  couldn't  'a'  kep' 
it  up  's  I  did.  But  my  !  'twas  hard  'nough 
's  'twas.  If  Pheby  'd  been  like  some  gals 
'twould  'a'  been  easier.  If  she'd  been  a  noisy, 
tomboy,  bouncin'  sorter  gal,  like  Liz  Jackman 
now,  fond  o'  playin'  with  boys  an'  fishin'  an' 
chasin'  squir'ls  an'  all  that,  why,  I  might  'ar  got 
some  fun  out  o'  bein'  that  kind.  But  to  be  a 
Pheby  gal,  soft  an*  quiet  an'  pritty-behaved  an' 
'fectionate,  an',  'bove  all,  pious,  why,  it  'most 
stumped  me,  I  tell  ye.  You  can't  s'pose  it  for 
yourself,  for 't  come  nat'ral  to  you.  You  was 
born  that  way,  an'  didn't  have  to  make  no  ef 
fort;  but  'twas  strainin'  on  me. 

"At  fust,  when  I  was  kinder  weak  an'  shaky 
an'  dreffle  scaret  about  mother,  'twa'n't  so  diff- 
cult.  I  moved  round  softly  an'  spoke  whisp'ry, 
an'  wa'n't  so  awful  difTunt  from  Pheby.  But 
's  I  got  more  rugged  an'  mother  was  better, 
why,  I  was  allers  on  the  p'int  o'doin'  some 


212  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

boy  thing   or   other,  an'  sometimes   I   done 
'em. 

"Time  and  time  ag'in  mother  'd  look  kinder 
mazed,  an'  she'd  say,  '  Pheby  Knight,  what  air 
ye  doin'  ?  Ye  seem  to  'a'  lost  all  your  nice, 
mannery  ways  sence  I  was  laid  up.'  An'  I'd 
rec'lect  myself,  an'  sober  down,  an'  put  on  my 
proper,  gal  ways  ag'in,  an'  say,  '  You  must 
scuse  me,  mother,  that  dreffle  sickness  upset 
me,  an'  I  don't  seem  to  throw  it  off  yit.'  An' 
that  allers  seemed  to  'count  for  ary  queer  thing 
I  done.  Anyway,  I  wa'n't  so  full  o'  sperrits  as 
afore  we  left  Sincler's  Mill.  So  much  trouble 
an'  worryin'  an'  makin'  bleeve  an'  deceivin'  'd 
wore  on  me  some,  for,  's  I  told  ye,  I  wa'n't  no 
great  of  a  boy,  an'  let  little  things  wear  on  me. 
One  thing  was  I  missed  Pheby — the  real  one 
— dreffle  bad.  Sisters  is  real  lux'ries,  ye  know, 
any  on  'em,  an'  when  you  come  to  a  twin,  a 
kinder  phillerpener  sister,  why,  it's  like  a  piece 
o'  your  own  self.  An'  I  couldn't  talk  about  her 
or  cry  over  her  afore  mother,  for  why,  /  was 
Pheby,  ye  see,  's  fur  's  mother  was  concerned, 
an'  'twould  'a'  seemed  like  sinful  pride.  An' 
then — for  I  was  a  stingy,  mean-sperrited  boy 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        213 

— I  did  hanker  arter  my  fishin'  an'  gunnin'  an' 
trappin'.  I'm  'shamed  to  tell  ye  how  hard 
'twas  not  to  try  that  brook  ahind  our  cabin.  I 
scasly  darst  look  at  one  spot  in  it — a  kinder 
dark,  deep  hole  near  a  stun.  I  knowed  'most 
there  was  a  big  trout  lyin'  there  in  the  shadder. 
You'll  jest  despise  me  when  I  say  I  run  off  once 
with  my  tackle,  an'  'd  jest  throwed  in  my  line 
an'  seed  a  break,  when  mother  calls  out  through 
the  winder  by  her  bed,  '  Pheby,  Pheby,  ye  ain't 
nigh  the  water,  be  ye  ?'  I  jerked  out  my  line, 
an'  throwed  the  pole  down,  an'  run  back, 
dreffle  'shamed  'o  myself;  but  I  was  mean 
'nough  to  think  a  heap  about  that  break,  an' 
s'mise  an'  s'mise  how  much  it  weighed. 

"But  the  very  hardest  o'  all  was  the  pious 
part.  I  hadn't  took  that  into  consid'ration 
when  I  begun,  but  it  had  to  come  over  me 'most 
the  fust  day.  '  Pheby,  won't  you  read  me  a 
chapter?'  says  mother,  in  her quav'ry, thin  v'ice. 
Now,  though  I  was  an  ign'runt,  onrighteous 
boy,  I  knowed  what  that  meant,  an'  that  '  a 
chapter'  with  mother  allers  went  for  Scripter. 
So  I  went  an'  got  the  Bible  an'  set  down  by 
the  bed,  an'  I  says,  '  What'll  I  read  ye,  mother  ?' 


214  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

4  One  of  the  old  chapters,  Pheby,'  says  she. 
'  You  know  'em  all ;  the  ones  I  like.'  What 
was  I  goin'  to  do  ?  I  wa'rit  Pheby,  an'  I  didn't 
know  'em  all,  or  ary  one  on  'em.  I  never'd 
took  much  notice  when  mother  an'  Pheby 
was  readin'  the  Bible,  an'  even  when  they'd 
read  to  me  I  was  thinkin'  in  my  triflin'  way 
about  fishin'  an'  playin',  and  didn't  pay  no  'ten- 
tion.  But  I  set  my  teeth  an'  opened  the  book. 
I  thought  mebbe  it  would  open  itself  to  the 
right  kinder  place,  so  I  begun  right  off,  jest 
where  the  leaves  come  apart.  But  I  hadn't 
scasly  begun  afore  I  knowed  I  was  wrong.  For 
it  was  jest  a  string  o'  long  names,  all  Bible 
names,  o'  course,  an'  good  in  their  way,  but  no 
more  approprit  to  read  to  a  poor  sick  Christian 
than  a  school  deestrick  list.  I  stumbled  'long 
over  Hakkoz  an'  Hupper  an'  Malchijer,  an'  so 
on,  awful  scaret,  an'  knowin'  I  was  on  the 
wrong  track,  till  mother  says,  '  Pheby,  Pheby, 
what  makes  you  pick  out  sech  a  chapter  as  that  ? 
I  want  suthin'  comfortin',  some  of  our  fav'rits, 
ye  know.'  I  tried  ag'in,  but  I  was  certain  I'd 
go  wrong,  an'  so  I  did,  for  I  hit  on  a  place 
about  buildin'  the  tab'nacle,  an'  it  was  all  about 


DEACON  PEHBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        215 

the  len'th  bein'so  many  cubics,  an' the  breadth 
so  many  cubics,  an'  the  height  so  many  cubics 
— int'restin'  information,  but  no  ways  comfort- 
in'  to  that  poor  blind,  troubled  soul.  So  there 
was  nothin'  for 't  but  to  make  some  excuse  an' 
put  it  off  a  little.  So  I  said  my  head  ached — 
an'  it  did  to  split — an'  I  see  mother  thought  the 
whole  thing  was  'cause  o'  that  sickness,  an' she 
must  jest  wait.  But,  I  tell  ye,  it  hurt  me  dreffle 
bad  to  think  I  could'nt  be  a  comfort  to  her  that 
way,  an'  I  thought  an'  thought  an'  thought 
what  I  could  do.  Pretty  soon  another  thing 
come  up.  Mother  was  low  in  her  mind  ;  'twas 
dreffle  hard  for  her  to  lay  there,  blind  an'  sickly, 
when  she'd  allers  been  sech  a  hard-workin', 
useful  woman,  an'  when  I  see  her  a-cryin'  softly 
to  herself,  I  ast  her  if  there  wa'n't  nothin'  I 
could  do  for  her,  an'  she  says :  '  It  makes  your 
head  bad  to  read  to  me,  Pheby,  an'  ye  can't  see 
straight  to  find  the  right  passages,  nuther.  But 
I  know  ye  can  jest  sing  me  one  of  the  old 
hymns,  an'  that  '11  be  soothin'  an'  comfortinV 

"Oh,  deary  me!  I  never  could  sing  much 
except  when  playin'  games  with  the  boys,  an' 
I  didn't  know  a  single  hymn  or  a  hymn  toon, 


2l6  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

while  Pheby  had  a  v'ice  like  a  thrush.  But  I 
must  do  suthin',  an'  quick  too.  I  got  out  the 
hymn-book — Pheby  know'd  'em  all  'thout  the 
book — an  I  opened  it  softly  ;  I  didn't  darst  turn 
the  leaves,  I  was  'feard  they'd  rustle,  so  I  had 
to  take  the  fust  varse  I  come  to,  an'  it  was,  '  Lo, 
on  a  narrer  neck  o'land.'  I  couldn't  think  o' 
any  toon  jest  that  minnit  but '  Oatspysbeans ' — 
a  kissin'  game  toon,  ye  know — an'  I  struck  up 
on  that.  It  went  pretty  well  to  the  two  fust 
lines, 

'  Lo,  on  a  narrer  neck  o'  land, 
Twixt  two  onbounded  seas  I  stand,' 

but  when  it  come  to  that  third  short  one,  ye 

know, 

'  But  how  insensibul,' 

it  wouldn't  go  one  mite,  an'  I  broke  clear  down. 

"'Pheby  Knight,'  says  mother,  'be  ye  cra 
zy  ?'  But  afore  she'd  got  further'n  that  I  didn't 
have  to  make  bleeve  ;  I  jest  bu'st  out  cryin'. 
'  I  can't  sing,  I  can't  read,  I  can't  do  nothin'  to 
help  ye  now,'  I  says  ;  'but  oh,  I  do  like  ye, 
mother!'  An'  I  did. 

"Well,  agin  she  put  it  on  to  the  sickness, 
an'  it  passed  over  that  time.  But  things  kep' 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        217 

happenin'.  I  worked  away  at  the  Bible  an'  pick 
ed  out  cheerfler  passages.  I  practised  hymns, 
an'  got  so's  I  could  make  'em  go  better,  an'  for 
a  spell  I  kinder  thought  1  was  satisfyin'  mother, 
an'  'pearin'  like  a  good  avrige  Christian.  I  felt 
dreffle  mean  about  it,  though.  There's  things 
I  can't  put  into  talk,  but  you'll  kinder  guess  at 
'em  ;  sollum,  secrety  sorter  things,  like  prayin', 
an'  all  that,  an'  whisp'ry  little  talks  about  sub- 
jicks  I  didn't  know  nothin'  about.  My  !  my  ! 
arter  one  o'  them  talks,  when  I'd  make  bleeve 
for  a  spell,  with  mother  talkin'  softly  an'  cryin' 
— a  kinder  happy  cryin'  'twas — I  used  to  feel 
for  all  the  airth  like  some  one  that  had  sneaked 
into  the  masons'  lodge  by  some  mean  trick  or 
t'other,  an'  got  hold  o'  all  their  secrets.  An' 
'twa'n't  long  afore  I  found  'twas  all  for  nothin' 
an'  wuss  too.  For  one  day  I  come  in  an'  found 
mother  a-cryin'  's  if  her  heart  would  break,  an' 
when  I  teased  an'  pestered  her  to  tell  me  what 
the  matter  was,  she  jest  thro  wed  her  arms  round 
me  an'  says,  a-cryin'  an'  sobbin',  '  Oh,  Pheby, 
my  little  gal,  I'm  afeard — I'm  afeard  you've  lost 
your  'surance  an'  become  a  backslider!'  Then 
I  see  I  hadn't  done  it  right,  arter  all,  an'  that 


2l8  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

mother'd  seed  through  me  —  found  me  out. 
Though  anyway  I  hadn't  exackly  been  a  back 
slider,  for  I  hadn't  ever  got  high  up  enough  to 
start  me  on  a  slide,  so  to  speak.  An'  then  I 
knowed  that  I'd  got  a  bigger  job  afore  me  'n 
I'd  ever  'lowed  for,  an'  that  if  I  kep'  on  bein' 
Pheby  an'  pleasin'  my  poor  old  mother,  I'd  got 
to  gin  up  makin'  bleeve  in  one  matter,  an'  be 
the  real,  true,  genwine  kind. 

"1  can't  tell  ye  about  all  that,  an'  o'  course  you 
don't  expect  it.  Somehow  'twa'n't  so  dreffle 
hard,  arter  all,  an'  once  I'd  done  it,  ary  other  part 
o'  the  hull  business  come  easier  some  way.  I 
got  a  awful  heap  o'  comfort  out  on  it  too.  So 
you  see  even  that  was  jest  part  o'  my  selfish 
ways.  I  don't  s'pose  there  ever  was  a  selfish- 
er,  mean-sperriteder  boy  than  me  them  days. 
But  'twa'n't  all  smooth  sailin',  I  can  tell  ye  ; 
there's  lots  o'  gal  doin's  that  comes  awkerd  for 
a  boy.  There's  mendin',  an'  patchwork,  an' 
knittin',  an'  washin',  an'  irenin',  makin'  beds, 
sweepin',  dustin',  an'  all  them  house  things. 
Makin'  soder  biscuits  's  kinder  worryin',  ain't 
it,  the  fust  time  ?  Drawin'  tea,  too.  An'  pie. 
Pie's  dreffle  difficult  till  you  get  the  hang  on  it. 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        219 

But,  deary  me !  they  was  triflin'  things,  arter 
all;  only  I  allers  made  so  much  o'  little  troubles. 

"But  I  don't  know  but  the  biggest  piece  o' 
work,  when  all's  said  an'  done,  w'an't  1'arnin' 
how  to  be  'fectionate,  an'  have  Pheby's  little 
cuddlin'  up,  kissin',  lovin'  ways.  I  never'd  been 
used  to  it,  ye  see,  an'  seemed  's  if  I  couldn't  get 
hold.  I  rec'lect  the  fust  time  I  tried  to  stroke 
mother's  hair 's  I'd  seen  Pheby  do,  I  kep'  reach- 
in'  out  an'  haulin'  back,  reachin'  out  an'  haulin' 
back,  afore  I  darst  touch  that  hair  with  my  big 
hard,  rough  hand.  But  I  had  to  do  it,  an'  lots 
o'  sech  things,  for  o'  course  I  wa'n't  goin'  to 
have  mother  do  without  'em  's  long  's  she 
wanted  'em  ;  an'  she  did ;  I  guess  mothers 
gen'ally  does.  An'  I  got  a  good  deal  o'  sech 
treatment  myself  too,  an'  I  liked  it,  an'  was 
mean  enough  sometimes  to  take  it  all  to  my 
self,  an'  'most  forgit  'twas  all  for  poor  little  Phe 
by  that  wa'n't  there  to  enjoy  it.  For,  ye  see,  's 
I  told  ye  afore,  I  jest  liked  mother. 

"I  don't  mean  to  say  that  mother  never 
said  nothin'  't  all  bout  me — the  real  true  me — 
for  she  did.  But  'twas  allers  about  my  soul,  an' 
how  'feard  she  was  she  hadn't  done  her  duty 


22O  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

by  it,  an'  how  'twas  mor  'n  likely  'twasn't  pre 
pared.  It  was  kinder  shiv'ry  —  though  that 
don't  exackly  seem  an  approprit  word  for 't — 
to  hear  her  dwell  on  the  prob'ble  sitwation  o' 
that  soul.  For  'twas  my  soul,  arter  all,  though 
I  was  makin'  bleeve  'twa'n't,  an'  sometimes  I'd 
try  to  speak  for 't,  an'  ventur  to  hope  'twould 
come  out  all  right,  bad 's  'twas.  But  she  never 
'peared  very  hopeful,  an'  I  don't  know 's  I  won 
der  at  it. 

"  Well,  it  didn't  last  very  long — this  time  o' 
havin'  mother  all  to  myself,  bein'  her  fav'rit, 
her  own  little  gal,  to  be  coddled  an'  cosseted 
an'  made  much  on.  Mother  didn't  grew  any 
ruggeder.  She  got  dreffle  poor,  so  's  I  could 
heft  her  like  a  baby,  an'  I  had  to  do  for  her 
'most 's  if  she  was  one;  she  was  so  weak  an' 
helpless  like.  An'  there  come  a  time  when  she 
kep'  me  close  to  her  ev'ry  minnit,  night  an'  day, 
an'  wouldn't  scasly  let  me  out  her  sight.  She 
didn't  sleep  good,  an'  I'd  set  by  her  in  the  dark, 
an'  say  hymns  an'  chapters,  an'  do  for  her,  an* 
make  much  on  her  in  my  poor  rough  way,  's 
much  like  Pheby's  's  I  could  make  it,  but  pretty 
diffunt,  I  guess,  arter  all. 


DEACON  PHEBY  S  SELFISH  NATUR.  22  1 

"An'  one  o'  them  nights,  's  I  set  there  on 
the  floor,  close  to  the  bed,  an'  it  growed  kind 
er  cold  towards  mornin',  I  drawed  a  piece  o' 
the  counterpane  up  over  me,  an'  sorter  shiver 
ed,  for  I  was  a  great  hand  to  pamper  my  wuth- 
less  body,  an'  make  much  o'  little  trials.  An' 
mother,  she  tried  to  wrop  the  blankets  round 
me,  an'  she  says,  '  Poor  little  gal,  poor  Pheby, 
wearin'  yourself  out  for  your  old  mother,'  an' 
then  she  drawed  my  face  down  on  the  piller, 
an'  she  says :  '  Pheby,  you  and  me,  we  both 
knows  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  here  long;  an'  I'd  be 
dreffle  glad  to  go,  blind  an'  sick  's  I  am,  an' 
like  to  be,  if  'twa'n't  for  leavin'  you.  You've 
been  a  good  darter  to  me,  Pheby,  allers.  What 
should  I  ever  'a'  done  without  you  all  these 
blessed  years,  partikler  this  last  spell  here  in 
Canady,  sence  your  brother  died  ?  Poor  Phe- 
bus,  'twas  awful  to  be  took  off 's  he  was,  in 
the  midst  of  his  sins;  but  oh,  whatever  'd  I 
done  if  you'd  been  took,  an'  him  the  one  left 
ahind?'  'Mother,'  says  I,  in  a  kinder  whis 
per,  '  mebbe  he'd  'a'  tried  to  help  ye,  bad  's  he 
was,  for — I  'most  know,  mother,  he — liked  ye!' 
'Well,  I  s'pose  he  did,'  says  mother;  'but  he 


222  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

never  showed  it  much,  an'  anyway  he  never 
could  'a'  done  for  me  's  you  have,  Pheby.' 
Then  she  talked  to  me  a  long  spell.  I  see  she 
was  worryin'  an'  achin'  to  think  o'  leavin'  me 
alone,  a  little  gal,  to  git  on  by  myself;  an'  it 
'most  seemed  's  if  I  must  tell  her  the  truth, 
jest  to  set  her  mind  to  rest.  But  I  knowed  it 
wouldn't  do  then,  she  was  so  weak  an'  ailin', 
an'  needed  Pheby  more'n  ever  to  help  her 
through  with  the  last  o'  things.  For  I  see  it 
all  plain  enough  now — she  was  goin'  to  die. 
She  was  a-growin'  weak  real  fast.  I  couldn't 
leave  her  a  minnit,  even  to  get  a  doctor  nor 
any  help;  an'  'twouldn't  'a'  been  any  use,  for 
she  was  struck  with  death,  I  knowed.  She 
said  a  good  many  things  's  she  was  able, 
whisp'rin'  most  on  'em  right  into  my  ear  's  I 
set  on  the  floor  there  by  the  bed.  But,  o' 
course,  'twas  all  meant  for  Pheby.  I  own  up 
I  jest  hankered  for  a  word  for  myself — Phebus, 
ye  know — afore  she  went  off  for  good;  but 
that  was  my  selfishness,  born  in  me,  and  's 
nat'ral  to  me  's  the  breath  I  breathed. 

"'I  know,'  she  says — 'I  know  I'll  like  it 
up  there,  an'  I'm  so  tired  out;  but,  Pheby,  I 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        223 

can't  make  it  seem  's  if  I'd  be  contented  with 
out  you.  I'm  so  used  to  ye.  I'll  miss  ye 
dreffly,  and  I'm  afraid  ye  won't  come  very 
soon  nuther,  for  Scripter  says  your  days  shall 
be  long  in  the  land,  'cause  you've  allers  hon 
ored  your  mother.'  Then  she  waits  a  minnit, 
an'  she  says  agin,  puttin'  her  poor  lean  hand 
up  to  my  face,  '  Oh,  Pheby,  I  wish  I  could  take 
ye  'long  too;  'twon't  seem  like  home  without 
ye.  I'm  afeard  I'll  be  lonesome  even  there. 

"  The  fondness  of  a  creeter's  love, 
How  strong  it  strikes  the  sense !" 

That's  what  the  hymn  says,  an'  it's  true,  an' 
I'll  miss  ye  dreffly,  dreffly,  Pheby.' 

"'Mother,'  I  says,  not  all  on  my  own 
'count,  but  wantin'  so  to  comfort  her,  '  there'll 
be — Phebus.  He  ain't  much,  I  know,  but — 
he's  one  o'  your  own  folks,  arter  all.' 

"'I  hope  he's  there,'  says  she,  kinder 
mournful;  'but,  'tennerate,  he  ain't  you,  my 
gal.  He  never  was  very  'fectionate. ' 

"'No,  mother,'  says  I,  'he  wa'n't;  but— 
mebbe — there's  jest  a  chance,  ye  know,  that 
he's  altered  some  up  there. ' 


224  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

"Agin  she  didn't  seem  very  sangwine,  so 
I  give  up  tryin'  to  help  her  that  way.  Arter 
all,  'twould  be  all  right  when  she  once  got 
there. 

"Towards  the  last  she  begun  to  tell  me, 
over  an'  agin,  how  she  should  keep  on  watch- 
in'  over  me  an'  interestin'  herself  in  me,  if  she 
was  'lowed.  '  I  guess  He'll  let  me,'  she  says, 
kinder  weak  an'  softly.  '  He'll  see  how  'tis, 
an'  how  I'm  frettin'  about  ye,  an'  He'll  let  me 
keep  my  eye  on  ye.'  Arter  that  she  kep'  up 
that  one  thing.  Over  an'  over  she  says, 'most 
to  the  last  minnit,  '  Rec'lect,  I'll  be  watchin' 
ye  all  the  time,  Pheby;'  an'  agin,  Til  keep  my 
eye  on  ye,  little  gal;  don't  forget  that.'  So 
'twas  to  the  end;  jest  little  bits  o'  words  to 
Pheby;  kinder  good-byes  an'  sayin's  about 
leavin'  her,  promisin's  to  watch  her  an'  keep 
run  on  her  allers.  But  jest  at  the  very  last, 
when  I  thought  she  was  act'ally  gone,  she 
opened  them  soft,  moth'ry  eyes  o'  hern,  thet 
I  thought  was  shet  forever,  an'  she  looked 
straight  up  to  the  rafters,  an'  she  says,  real 
loud  an'  quick,  an'  dreffle  pleased  like,  '  Why, 
Pheby!' 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        225 

"Deary  me!  deary  me!  She'd  found  me 
out. 

"I  don't  rec'lect  nothin'  more  for  a  spell. 
Seems  I  was  took  bad  arter  that,  an'  had  a 
long  sickness,  a  sorter  head  fever  o'  some 
kind,  so  's  I  didn't  know  nothin'  nor  nobody, 
an'  was  crazier'n  a  loon.  But  I  was  took  care 
on.  I  ain't  said  nothin'  to  ye  o'  the  folks  that 
lived  nighest  our  house,  for  it  didn't  seem 
to  have  much  to  do  with  the  story  about  me 
an'  mother.  But  they  was  dreffle  good  peo 
ple,  kinder  Frenchy,  an'  talkin'  a  queer  lingo, 
but  the  best  o'  neighbors.  I  don't  know  what 
we  should  'a'  done  without  'em.  Mother  nev 
er  could  get  the  hang  o'  their  talk,  but  I  got 
so's  I  could  make  out  a  good  deal  on  it,  an' 
they  was  a  heap  o'  comfort  to  me  afore  she 
died.  When  I  come  to  myself  arter  my  sick 
ness,  there  they  was  a-takin'  care  o'  me,  an' 
doin'  for  me  's  if  I'd  been  their  own  folks. 
Cath'lics  they  was  too,  but  Christians  if  ever  I 
see  one. 

"Well,  'twas  terr'ble  to  come  to,  an'  rec' 
lect  mother  was  gone,  an'  me  the  last  one  o' 
the  fam'ly  left;  an'  fust  I  couldn't  scasly  bear 
15 


226  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

it.  But  I  had  to ;  an'  it  helped  me  a  gooor  deal 
to  think  how  she  an'  Pheby  was  in  the  same 
place  now,  an'  dreffle  pleased  to  be  together. 
But  arter  a  spell  there  was  another  kinder 
consolation  come  to  me,  but  a  selfish  sort  it 
was.  It  was  jest  this,  that  mother  bein'  dead, 
an'  gone  where  nothin'  could  never  worry 
her,  I  could  stop  bein'  Pheby  or  ary  other 
gal,  an'  be  a  boy  agin.  Oh,  ye  don't  know 
what  that  meant  to  me,  for  you've  allers  been 
one  kind.  But  arter  makin'  bleeve  all  them 
months,  wearin'  gal's  clothes  an'  actin'  out  gal 
ways,  why  them  very  words,  'a  boy  agin,' 
set  me  'most  crazy.  To  think  o'  whittlin', 
playin'  ball  an'  marbles,  smokin'  out  wood- 
chucks,  goin'  in  swimmin',  throwin'  stuns, 
settin'  traps,  shootin'  squir'ls  an'  pa'tridges, 
an'  above  all,  fishin'.  Why,  I  couldn't  hard 
ly  stan'  it,  weak  's  I  was  then.  When  I  laid 
there,  all  het  up  an'  thirsty  an'  tired,  why  I'd 
keep  thinkin'  an'  thinkin'  o'  Sincler's  Mill,  an' 
Gale  River  right  in  front  o'  the  ole  house.  I 
could  'most  hear  the  water  a-bubblin'  over  the 
stuns,  an'  see  the  moss,  all  soft  an'  wet  an' 
slipp'ry  to  step  on,  an'  look  down  into  the 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        227 

dark  holes  in  the  shadders  where  the  trout 
used  to  lay — I  knowed  ev'ry  single  one  o' 
them  holes  's  well 's  if  I'd  been  raised  in  'em 
— an'  how  I  jest  hankered  an'  hankered  arter 
bein'  in  the  old  spot,  a  boy  agin !  Now  you'd 
'a'  thought,  arter  all  the  lessons  I'd  had,  an' 
the  warnin's,  that  some  o'  the  old  selfish  ways 
would  'a'  been  took  out  o'  me ;  but  no ;  there 
they  was,  an'  I  'most  forgot  mother,  Pheby, 
an'  all  for  a  spell,  's  I  thought  over  them  old 
times  when  I  was  Phebus  Knight,  an'  all  gin 
up  to  my  own  self-seekin'  pleasures. 

"  But  I'm  dreffle  glad  'twas  only  jest  for  a 
spell,  an'  that  I  come  to  my  right  mind  arter 
a  little.  'Twas  when  I  was  gettin'  better, 
an'  'lottin'  on  startin'  for  the  old  home  pretty 
soon.  I'd  been  thinkin'  about  mother,  an'  go- 
in'  over  in  my  head  all  she  said  an'  done, 
till  I  come  to  that  last  night  an'  the  good-by 
talk,  an'  o'  course  I  come  to  the  thing  she 
kep'  sayin'  up  to  the  end :  '  I'll  keep  my  eye 
on  ye,  Pheby;  I'll  watch  ye  all  the  time.' 
An'  all  on  a  sudden  it  come  over  me  what 
that  meant,  an'  what  I'd  got  to  do.  Ye  see, 
I  knowed  mother  an'  Pheby  bein'  together 


228  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

now  would  talk  over  things,  an'  mother'd  see 
how  'twas,  an'  that  Pheby  was  reely  the  one 
that  died,  an'  that  'twas  me,  Phebus,  that  had 
took  care  on  her  an'  done  Pheby's  part.  I 
knowed  that  mother  bein'  a  mother,  one  o'  the 
real  sort,  an'  Pheby  bein'  a  soft-hearted  little 
gal,  an'  my  twin  too,  they'd  make  more'n 
they'd  oughter  o'  what  I'd  done,  an*  me  bein' 
away  an'  all,  they'd  begin  to  feel  kinder  sorry 
for  me,  an'  mother  in  partikler  'd  fret  about 
it,  an'  wish  I  hadn't  had  to  give  up  all  my  boy 
doin's  an'  be  a  gal  so  long  for  her  sake.  Oh, 
I  knowed  mother,  ye  see,  an'  could  tell  jest 
how  she'd  worry  about  me,  an'  how  'twould 
half  spile  ev'rything  up  there  in  her  new  hum. 
Seemed  's  if  I  could  'most  hear  her  sayin': 
'  Oh,  Pheby,  I  can't  bear  to  think  o'  that  poor 
boy,  how  he  gin  up  his  fishin'  an'  all,  an' 
wored  your  clothes,  an'  jest  stayed  round  me 
day  an'  night,  so's  I  shouldn't  miss  a  darter's 
care.  An'  he  so  selfish  by  natur  an'  fond  o' 
his  own  'musements.'  I  kep'  hearin'  that  talk, 
in  mother's  fretty,  sorry  v'ice,  an'  I  couldn't 
stand  it  no  longer.  I  knowed  she  was  allers 
a  woman  of  her  word,  an'  she  had  her  eye 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        229 

on  me  now.  An'  when  she  seed  me  tickled 
to  death  at  bein'  free  agin,  throwin'  off  my 
gal  duds  an'  my  gal  ways,  an'  goin'  back  to 
my  rough  play  an'  my  boy  doin's,  it  would 
stren'then  her  all  the  more  in  her  'pinion, 
an'  she'd  jest  fret  an'  fret  about  all  I'd  gone 
through,  an'  how  I'd  done  it  all  for  her,  an' 
she  never'd  had  a  chance  to  thank  me  for't. 
Well,  o'  course  you  see  that  the  selfishest  boy 
livin'  wa'n't  goin'  to  have  heav'n  spiled  for 
his  mother  jest 's  she'd  got  there,  if  he  could 
do  anything  to  help  it.  So  't  seemed  plain 
enough  that  I'd  got  to  gin  up  any  little  idee 
I'd  had  about  goin'  back  to  be  a  boy  agin,  an' 
keep  on  makin'  bleeve.  I  knowed  I  could  do 
it;  I'd  kep'  it  up  so  long,  it  come  quite  easy 
an'  nat'ral  now,  an'  I  felt  cert'in  I  could  make 
mother  bleeve  I  reely  enjoyed  bein'  a  gal,  an' 
what's  more  to  the  p'int,  that  I  had  enjoyed 
it,  an'  she'd  see  she  needn't  fret  no  great  about 
me  an'  my  givin'  up  anything  for  her,  for  I'd 
done  it  jest  for  fun  like,  an'  'cause  I  reely 
liked  it. 

"So  there  ain't  much  more  to  tell,  ye  see. 
Course 's  soon  's  I  see  what  any  right-minded 


2}0  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

boy  'd  a-seen  at  fust,  why  I  wa'n't  quite  so 
mean,  arter  all,  's  not  to  do  it.  So  I  jest  kep' 
on.  'Tain't  much,  when  ye  come  to  think  on 
't.  I'd  done  it  for  a  long  spell,  an'  I  kep'  on. 
There  was  jest  one  thing  I  couldn't  do  at  fust, 
an'  that  was  go  back  to  Sincler's  Mill.  I  das- 
sent,  ye  see ;  I'd  been  sure  to  backslid,  set  me 
once  in  sight  o'  Gale  River,  an'  Tucker  Brook, 
an'  the  woods  round  the  old  place.  So  I 
stayed  round  there  a  spell,  an'  then  I  went  off 
to  one  place  arter  another.  I  don't  rec'lect 
jest  what  I  have  done.  It  don't  seem  very 
long  one  way ;  time's  got  by  somehow.  I've 
been  sick  a  good  deal,  I  guess.  From  what 
they  tell  me,  I  s'pose  I've  had  some  'tacks  o' 
that  kind  o'  head  fever  that  come  over  me  ar 
ter  mother  died.  But  'twa'n't  a  ketchin'  com 
plaint,  so  folks  used  to  take  me  in  an'  do  for 
me;  an'  somehow  I've  had  a  very  comf'table 
time,  consid'rin'. 

"An'  I  callalate  I've  sat'sfied  mother  by 
this  time  that  I  like  women  ways  an'  women 
clothes  better  than  t'other  sort.  I  come  back 
here  arter  a  spell;  thought  I  could  stand  it 
better'n  at  fust.  An'  I'm  dreffle  glad  I  done 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR.        231 

it.  For,  ye  see,  this  place  here's  such  a  sat's- 
faction  to  me.  Mother  an'  Pheby's  buried 
in  Canady,  ye  know.  It  was  pretty  hard  to 
leave  'em  there,  an'  not  have  nothin'  to  do  for 
'em  to  occ'py  my  mind  like.  But  one  time  I 
happened  to  drop  in  here  an'  see  this  place, 
jest  like  a  ready-made  cem'tery.  Course  I 
knowed  it  wa'n't  one;  but  arter  makin'  bleeve 
so  long,  what's  one  more  bleeve  makin'  ?  So 
I  picked  out  two  graves  for  theirn — this  long 
one  for  mother's,  an'  this  little  one  for  Phe 
by's;  an'  I  jest  take  care  on  'em.  It's  a  dreffle 
comfort. 

"I  won't  say  that  I  'ain't  had  a  r'lapse  'ca- 
sionally  an'  forgot  I  wa'n't  a  boy,  but  I  allers 
rec'lected  arter  a  spell,  an'  afore  mother'd  no 
ticed  anything,  I  guess.  Why,  it's  only  jest  a 
few  days  sence  one  time  I  was  settin'  here 
knittin',  an'  I  heerd  Snide,  'Gene  Elliott's  black 
dog,  ye  know,  a-barkin'  an'  whinin'  an'  yelp- 
in'.  An'  I  looked  over  in  the  medder,  'cross 
the  road,  an'  there  he  was  a-scratchin'  up  the 
sod,  makin'  the  dirt  fly,  an'  shakin'  an'  cryin' 
with  excitement,  like  a  Christian.  I  knowed 
he'd  got  a  woodchuck  there  in  his  hole;  an'  I 


2^2  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

forgot  ev'ry  blessed  thing  I'd  oughter  remem 
bered,  an'  started  for  that  hole.  I  throwed 
my  knittin'  down,  held  up  my  apern,  an'  run, 
a-callin'  out:  'Good  old  Snide!  take  him, 
Snide!  take  him!'  I  was  half-way  there,  an' 
Snide  he  was  waggin'  his  tail  an'  barkin'  to 
me  to  hurry,  when  all  on  a  sudden  it  come 
over  me  what  I  was  a-doin'.  1  looked  up 
quick  to  see  if  anybody  up  there  had  her  eye 
on  me;  then  I  picked  up  my  knittin',  smooth 
ed  my  apern,  an'  I  says,  real  loud  an'  plain :  '  I 
wonder  if  Nervy  Eaton  won't  show  me  that 
new  stitch  she  was  tellin'  on  ?  I'd  like  to 
make  a  tidy.  An'  mebbe  I'd  better  set  some 
bread  to-night;  it's  bakin'  day  to-morrow.' 

"I  don't  go  very  frequent  to  Sincler's  Mill. 
It's  kinder  lonesome  out  there  now.  The  old 
mill's  all  gone  to  rack,  an'  our  house  's  a 
shackly  old  thing — doors  an'  winders  gone, 
an'  things  tumblin'  to  pieces.  I  was  out  there 
t'other  day,  though,  lookin'  round,  an'  thinkin' 
o'  them  times  when  I  used  to  live  there  an' 
was  a  boy,  with  a  hum,  an'  a  twin-sister,  an' 
— a  mother.  It  kinder  brought  back  things. 
Why,  come  to  think  on't,  I  'ain't  lived  a  mite 


DEACON  PHEBY'S  SELFISH  NATUR. 

like  what  I  thought  I  was  goin'  to  when  I 
used  to  lay  out  things  there  's  I  was  fishin'  or 
settin'  round  in  the  woods.  I  was  'most  sure 
for  a  long  spell  that  I'd  be  a  pirate;  or,  agin,  I 
kinder  laid  out  to  be  a  big  hunter,  to  kill  lions 
an'  tigers  an'  sech  wild  creeters.  Seems  to 
me  I  was  all  for  bein'  a  sea-cap'n  one  time, 
an'  goin'  whalin',  an'  killin'  polar-bears  on  the 
ice.  My!  I  'ain't  done  one  o'  them  things. 
I've  jest  gone  on  my  own  selfish  way,  allers 
doin'  nothin'  for  nobody.  I  was  a-standin' 
near  the  river,  jest  acrost  from  the  old  house, 
a-lookin'  at  it.  I  didn't  exactly  like  to  go 
inside  on  't,  'twas  so  lonesome,  an'  yer  steps 
sounded  so  holler  when  you  walked  on  the 
floor.  But  I  looked  at  the  old  place  a  long 
spell.  The  door  was  gone,  but  the  door- way 
was  there,  an'  part  of  the  steps,  an'  's  I  was 
lookin'  I  see — right  there,  's  plain  's  I  see  you 
now — I  see  mother.  She  was  standin'  right 
in  the  door-way.  She  had  on  a  kinder  indi- 
ger  blue  dress  she  used  to  wear  a  good  deal, 
with  white  spriggles  on  it,  an'  a  little  hank'- 
chief  round  her  neck,  an'  she  looked  jest  as 
nat'ral.  She  was  lookin'  down  the  road,  hold- 


234  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

in'  up  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  keep  the  sun 
out,  an'  she  was  lookin'  an'  lookin',  kinder 
pale  an'  scairt  like,  with  a  kinder  watchin'  an' 
waitin'  an'  wantin'  look  in  her  eyes — them 
soft,  moth'ry  eyes  o'  hern.  She  didn't  speak, 
but  jest 's  I  see  her,  why  right  out  from  under 
the  bank,  close  by  me,  a  little  brown  bird 
flew  out,  an'  he  says,  loud  an'  clear,  but  kinder 
mournful  like,  '  Pheby  !  Pheby  !'  I  tell  ye  I 
couldn't  scasly  stand  it;  an'  whenever  I  think 
on  't  now,  it  kinder  upsets  me.  An'  1  look  up 
through  them  tree-tops,  with  my  eyes  so  wet 
it  makes  things  all  sorter  dazzly,  an'  true  's  I 
live  I  can  see  mother's  face  jest 's  plain.  She's 
lookin'  out  of  a  kinder  door- way,  an'  her  eyes 
is  jest  the  same  old  mother  color,  so  soft  an* 
lovin',  an'  she's  got  a  sorter  anxious,  waitin', 
watchin',  wantin'  look  in  'em.  An'  I  says  to 
myself :  '  Why,  what's  the  matter  o'  mother 
now  ?  Pheby's  to  hum.  I  wonder  if  she's 
expectin'  anybody  else  ?'" 


VII. 

A    SPEAKIN*   GHOST. 

1 '  Stay,  illusion  ! 

If  thou  hast  any  sound,  or  use  of  voice> 
Speak  to  me: 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done, 
That  may  to  thee  do  ease,  and  grace  to  me, 
Speak  to  me!" 

Hamlet 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST. 

YES,  I  do  bleeve  in  'em — in  one  of  'em,  ten- 
nerate.  An'  I  know  why  you  ask  me  if  I 
do.  Somebody's  put  you  up  to  it,  so's  you  can 
make  me  tell  my  ghost  story.  Well,  you're 
welcome  to  that  if  you  want  it.  It's  no  great 
of  a  story,  but  it's  true  ;  an'  arter  all,  that's  the 
main  p'int  in  a  story — ghost  or  no  ghost. 

Well,  I  s'pose  I'll  s'prise  you  when  I  say  it 
all  happened  in  New  York  city.  Seein'  me 
here  in  Kitt'ry,  an'  knowin'  my  name's  Jenness 
— a  real  Kitt'ry  an'  Portsmouth  an'  Rye  name 
— why,  o'  course  you'd  take  it  for  granted  I'd 
allers  lived  round  here,  an'  all  my  happenin's 
had  been  in  this  local'ty.  Well,  you're  right 
one  way.  I  was  born  about  here,  an'  come  of 
good  old  Scataqua  River  stock.  My  father  was 
Andronicus  Jenness,  born  an'  raised  in  Rye, 
an'  the  fust  thing  I  rec'lect  we  was  livin'  in 
Portsmouth,  on  the  old  Odiorne's  P'int  road. 

There  was  father  'n'  mother,  three  boys — 


2}8  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

Amos,  Ezry,  an'  Peleg  —  an'  me,  Mary  Ann,  the 
oldest  o'  the  family  an'  the  only  girl.  It's  the 
ghost  story  you  want  to  hear,  so  I  ain't  goin' 
to  bother  you  with  anything  else. 

But  that  time  I  lived  there  in  the  old  red 
house,  with  my  own  folks  round  me — 'pears 
to  me  now  the  only  time  I  did  ever  reely  live. 
We  was  pretty  well  to  do,  we  had  a  good 
home,  an'  we  was  all  together.  Father  was  a 
good  man,  mother  the  very  best  o'  women,  an' 
I  was  dreffle  fond  on  'em.  An'  the  boys,  they 
was  just  rugged,  noisy,  good-natur'd  chaps, 
that  kep'  the  house  lively  enough,  I  can  tell 
you.  But  when  1  was  nigh  on  to  twenty-five, 
an'  the  boys  was  twenty  an'  seventeen  an'  fif 
teen,  it  all  ended,  that  life  in  the  old  red  house. 
Father  an'  my  three  laughin',  high-sperrited, 
pleasant -spoken  boys,  was  all  drownded  at 
once,  one  day  in  September.  They  went  out  in 
a  sail-boat,  a  storm  come  up — 'twas  the  begin^ 
nin'  of  the  line  gale — an' their  boat  capsized^ 
an'  them  that  went  out  rugged  an'  big  an' 
healthy,  laughin'  back  at  ma  an'  me  as  we 
stood  at  the  door  to  see  'em  off,  was  fetched 
back  stiff  an'  wet  an'  cold,  an'  so  dreffle  still.  I 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  239 

never'd  seen  the  boys  still  afore  in  all  their 
lives. 

Mother  never  held  up  her  head  arter  that  day, 
an'  afore  the  new  year  come  in  she'd  follered 
pa  an'  the  boys.  It  left  me  dreffie  lonesome. 
You  couldn't  'a'  broke  up  a  fam'ly  in  all  that 
section  that'd  'a'  took  it  harder.  For  we'd 
allers  set  so  much  by  each  other,  an'  done  ary 
thing  we  could  to  keep  together  an'  not  be  sep- 
'rated,  an'  there  we  was,  all  broke  up  at  once, 
an'  the  old  house  nothin'  now  but  a  dry  holler 
shell.  I  didn't  want,  o'  course,  to  rattle  round 
in  it  longer'n  I  could  help.  I  got  red  on  it 's 
fast  as  I  could,  an'  went  over  to  Rye.  I  know- 
ed  how  to  work  an'  wa'n't  afraid  of  it,  an', 
o'  course,  the  more  I  had  to  do  jest  then  the 
better  for  me.  For  I  was  stupid  an'  scared  an' 
sore  with  the  dreffle  trouble  that  come  on  me 
so  quick  an'  suddin,  an'  I  was  so  terr'ble  lone 
some. 

Well,  I  s'pose  'twas  because  I'd  allers  liked 
boys,  an'  was  used  to  havin'  'em  round,  an'  be 
cause,  too,  o'  my  missin'  my  own  boys  so  bad, 
that  I  got  a  place  at  fust  in  Mr.  Sheaf's  school. 
Twas  a  boys'  school,  an'  they  took  me  for  a 


240  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

kind  of  house-keeper — to  see  to  things  gener 
ally.  Twas  a  sort  of  comfort — as  much  as  any 
thing  in  this  world  could  be  a  comfort — to  see 
the  boys  an'  do  for  'em.  I  had  a  little  place  to 
myself  right  off  the  school-room,  an'  there  I  used 
to  do  my  mendin'  an'  everything  I  could  con 
trive  to  do  for  an  excuse  to  stay  right  there, 
where  I  could  see  an'  hear  them  boys.  Twas 
a  kind  of  eddication  jest  to  hear  'em  go  over 
their  lessons — their  jography  an'  rethmetic  an' 
grammar — an' partikly  their  readin'  an'  sayin' 
pieces.  Ev'ry  speakin'  day — Friday  'twas — I 
was  allers  on  hand,  never  losin'  a  word,  an' 
sometimes  I'd  practise  the  boys  'forehand  till 
they  knowed  their  pieces  perfect.  I  stayed 
there  about  six  months,  an'  I  hoped  I  could  stay 
there  the  rest  o'  my  days.  But  even  that  poor 
comfort  had  to  be  took  away;  for  Mr.  Sheaf's 
health  broke  down;  he  give  up  the  school  an' 
moved  away.  So  I  lost  even  them  borrered 
boys,  who'd  been  in  a  sort  o'  way  helpin'  to 
fill  up  the  places  o'  my  own.  An'  so  agin  I 
was  left  terr'ble  lonesome.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do,  nor  care  much.  So,  when  I  had  an  op- 
p'tunity  to  go  to  New  York  I  took  it. 


A  SPEAKIN    GHOST.  24! 

Twas  a  lady  who'd  had  a  boy  at  the  school, 
an'  had  been  there  herself  an'  seen  me.  Mis' 
Davis  she  was,  an'  she  writ  to  know  if  I'd 
come  on  to  stay  in  her  house  through  the 
summer,  an'  do  for  her  pa,  while  she  an'  her 
children  was  off  to  the  country.  As  I  said 
afore,  I  didn't  much  care  what  I  done,  I  was  so 
lonesome  an'  mis'rable;  so  I  said  I'd  go. 

But  if  I'd  been  lonesome  afore,  I  was  a  hun- 
derd  times  lonesomer  there.  I  never 'd  been  in 
a  big  city  afore,  an'  I'd  kind  o'  thought  'twould 
be  folksy  an'  'livenin'  an'  cheerful.  But  'twa'n't 
a  mite  like  that.  The  house  was  mostly  shet 
up  an'  dark.  Mr.  Rice — Mis'  Davis's  pa — was 
off  all  day  long,  took  his  dinner  an'  supper  to 
a  tavern  somewheres,  an'  was  only  to  home  to 
sleep  an'  eat  his  breakfast.  I  didn't  have  much 
of  anything  to  do.  I  had  a  big  down-stairs 
room  they  called  the  front  basement  to  set  in. 
It  had  two  windows  on  the  street, but 'twas  so 
low  down  that  you  couldn't  see  much  out  of 
'em  without  screwin'  your  neck  an'  peekin'  up. 
There  was  lots  o'  folks  passin'  by  all  the  time, 
but  you  couldn't  scasly  see  anything  but  their 
feet  an'  legs.  An'  oh,  the  noise  o'  the  wagons 
16 


242  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

an'  cars!  It  made  me  'most  crazy  at  fust,  but 
bimeby  I  got  a  little  used  to  it.  But  I  thought 
I  should  jest  die  o'  homesickness.  How  I'd 
think  an'  think  an'  think  o'  the  old  days  an'  the 
old  house  on  the  Odiorne's  P'int  road!  How 
din0' rent  it  was  from  this  city  one !  The  old 
home  was  so  quiet  an'  still  outside,  an'  so  noisy 
an'  lively  in-doors  ;  an'  the  city  house  was  so 
noisy  an'  lively  out-doors,  an'  so  dreffle  still  an' 
quiet  inside. 

An'  'twas  right  there  in  the  front  basement 
o'  that  city  house  that  I  see  the  ghost.  Twa'n't 
like  ary  other  ghost  I  ever  heerd  on.  Them 
I've  read  about  mostly  wore  white  sheets,  an' 
looked  dreffle  skully  an'  bony,  an'  kind  o'  aw 
ful.  One  o'  that  sort  would  'a'  scaret  me,  I 
know ;  but  this  one — why,  I  never  felt  a  mite 
scaret  from  the  very  fust.  Fact  is,  I  never 
knowed  'twas  a  ghost  for  a  spell,  for  it  looked 
like  a  boy,  jest  a  common,  ord'nary  boy  ;  an' 
'twas  a  speakin'  one.  I  don't  mean  one  that 
talked,  but  a  speakin'  one  that  spoke  pieces. 

I  don't  think  I  smelt  pepp'mint  the  fust  time 
it  come.  I  don't  rec'lect  it  anyway,  but  allers 
arter  that  I  did.  I  was  settin'in  the  front 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  243 

basement  when  it  come.  Twas  between  five 
an'  six  in  the  arternoon,  light  enough  still  out 
doors,  but  kind  o'  dusky  in  my  down-stairs 
room.  I  wasn't  doin'  anythin'  jest  then  but 
settin'  in  my  chair  an'  thinkin'.  I  don't  know 
what  'twas  exackly  that  made  me  look  up  an' 
across  the  room,  but  I  done  it;  an'  there,  stand- 
in'  right  near  the  table  an'  lookin'  at  me,  was 
the  ghost;  though, 's  I  said  afore,  I  didn't  know 
it  for  a  ghost  then ;  it  looked  like  a  boy.  But 
he  wasn't  a  city  boy,  nor  like  any  one  I'd  seen 
for  a  long  spell.  He  was  about  fourteen  or  fif 
teen,  I  should  think,  an'  he  wa'n't  no  way  pret 
ty  to  look  at,  but  I  liked  him  from  the  fust  min 
ute.  He  was  real  freckled,  but  that  never  was 
a  great  drawback  to  me;  an'  he  had  kind  o' 
light,  reddish-yellow  hair,  not  very  slick,  but 
mussy  an'  rough  like.  His  eyes  was  whity- 
blue,  an'  he  hadn't  much  in  the  way  o'  eye- 
winkers  or  eyebrows.  An'  his  nose  was  kind 
o'  wide,  an'  jest  a  mask  o'  freckles,  like  a  turkey 
egg.  So,  you  see,  he  wa'n't  much  to  look  at  for 
beauty,  but  I  took  to  him  right  off.  I  knowed 
he  was  from  the  country  's  soon  as  I  see  him. 
Any  one  could  tell  that.  His  hands  was  red 


244  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

an'  rough  an'  scratched,  an'  he  had  warts.  Then 
his  clothes  showed  it  too.  You  could  see  in 
a  jiffy  they  was  home-made,  an'  cut  over  an' 
down  from  his  pa's.  There  was  a  sort  o' 
New  Hampshire  look  about  him  too,  an'  I  felt 
a  real  drawin'  to  him  right  off.  I  was  jest  a 
mite  s'prised  to  see  him  standin'  there,  for  I 
hadn't  heerd  a  knock  or  anything,  but  afore  I 
could  speak  an'  ask  him  what  he  wanted,  he 
stepped  up  in  front  o'  me,  an'  says,  sort  o' 
quick  an'  excited  like, 

"  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  ?" 

An'  afore  I  had  time  to  say  that  yes,  bless 
his  little  heart,  I  jest  would,  he  begun : 

"  My  name  is  Norvle ;  on  the  crampin'  hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flock,"    . 

an'  a  lot  more  about  his  folks,  an'  all  so  pretty 
spoken  an'  nice.  When  he'd  done  he  drawed 
one  foot  up  to  t'other  an'  made  a  bow,  real 
polite,  an'  then  he  stood  stock-still  agin.  O' 
course  I  praised  him  up,  said  he'd  spoke  his 
piece  beautiful,  an'  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't 
like  a  cooky.  I  got  up  an'  went  to  the  pantry 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  245 

to  get  some,  but  when  I  turned  round  to  ask 
him  if  he  liked  sugar  or  m'lasses  best,  he'd 
gone.  I  thought  'twas  pretty  suddin,  but 
then  I  s'posed  he  was  bashful,  an'  had  took 
that  way  o'  leavin'  to  save  talk  an'  fuss.  I 
looked  out  o'  the  winder  to  see  if  he  was 
round,  but  there  wa'n't  a  sign  on  him,  an'  I 
give  him  up.  An'  'twas  jest  then  I  begun  to 
smell  pepp'mint.  But  I  didn't  put  the  two 
things — the  boy  an'  the  pepp'mint — together 
then ;  not  till  some  time  arterwards. 

Well,  you  don't  know  how  it  chirked  me 
up,  that  little  visit.  To  be  sure,  it  had  been 
real  short  an'  unsat'sfact'ry.  He  hadn't  never 
told  me  one  word  about  hisself — where  he 
come  from,  who  he  was,  nor  anything.  But 
that  didn't  seem  to  make  no  diff'rence  to  me. 
I  felt 's  if  I  knowed  him  real  well,  an'  his  folks 
afore  him;  an'  somehow,  too,  I  had  a  feelin' 
that  he'd  come  agin,  an'  I'd  find  out  all  I  want 
ed  to  about  him  an'  his  belongin's.  But 
thinkin'  about  him  an'  his  call  an'  all  made 
the  time  pass  real  quick,  an'  'twas  bedtime 
afore  I  knowed  it — the  fust  evenin'  sence 
I  come  there  that  I  hadn't  jest  longed  for 


246  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

nine,  an'  looked  at  the  clock  twenty  times  an 
hour. 

The  next  day  slipped  by  in  the  same  slip- 
pety  way,  for  I  was  goin'  over  in  my  mind 
what  he'd  done  an'  said,  an'  s'posin'  an'  s'pos- 
in'  who  his  folks  was,  an'  all  that. 

About  the  same  time  o'  day,  towards  six 
o'clock  or  so,  I  set  down  in  the  same  place  by 
the  winder  an'  begun  to  watch  for  him.  He 
hadn't  said  he'd  come,  but  I  had  a  strong  feel- 
in'  inside  that  he  was  goin'  to.  An'  he  did. 
But  'twa'n't  out  o'  the  winder  I  see  him.  For 
I  begun  to  smell  a  strong  pepp'minty  kind  o' 
smell  agin,  an'  I  turned  to  look  up  at  the  shelf 
where  I  kept  my  med'cines  to  see  if  the  bottle 
was  broke  or  the  stopple  out,  an' — there  stood 
the  ghost.  Though  even  then  I  never  dream 
ed  'twas  a  ghost.  I  thought  'twas  jest  a  boy. 
He  was  standin'  across  the  room,  jest  where  I 
fust  see  him,  by  the  table,  an'  lookin'  straight 
at  me.  An'  afore  I  could  say  a  word  he  start 
ed  right  for  me,  an'  says,  lookin'  real  bright 
an'  int'rested,  "Don't  you  want  to  hear  me 
speak  my  piece  ?"  An'  off  he  went  as  glib  as 
could  be.  1  can't,  for  the  life  o'  me,  rec'lect 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  247 

what  'twas  he  spoke  that  time.  I  get  the 
pieces  mixed  somehow  them  days,  afore  the 
time  come  when  they  meant  somethin',  an' 
I  begun  to  take  in  their  meanin's.  Mebbe 
'twas 

"At  midnight  when  the  sun  was  low," 
or  it  might  be 

"On  Linden  in  his  gardin  tent," 

for  I  know  he  spoke  them  some  time.  Ten- 
nerate  he  said  off  something.  An'  when  he'd 
done  he  drawed  up  his  foot  an'  bowed  real 
nice.  I  clapped  my  hands  an'  praised  him  up, 
an'  then  I  begun  to  ask  questions.  I  wanted 
to  know  what  his  name  was,  where  he  come 
from,  who  his  folks  was,  how  he  knowed 
about  me,  why  he  come,  an'  lots  o'  things. 
He  stayed  quite  a  long  spell,  an'  I  did  jest  en 
joy  that  talk.  Bimeby  I  went  into  the  closet 
to  get  something  to  show  him,  an'  when  I 
come  back,  he  was  gone  agin.  Twa'n't  till 
some  time  arter  he'd  left  that  I  rec'lected  that 
though  it  seemed  's  if  I'd  had  a  good  talk  with 
him,  I'd  done  it  all  my  own  self,  an'  he  never 


248  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

'd  said  one  single  word  —  nothin',  I  mean, 
but  that  one  thing  he  allers  said,  "  Don't  you 
want  to  hear  me  speak  my  piece  ?" 

An'  yet  somehow  I  knowed  lots  more  about 
him  than  afore.  In  the  fust  place,  I'd  come 
to  feel  cert'n  sure  his  name  was  Norvle,  an' 
that  he  wa'n't  only  speakin'  a  piece  about  that, 
but  meant  it  for  gospel  truth.  An'  arter  that 
I  never  thought  o'  him  by  any  other  name. 
An'  I  did  think  o'  him  lots.  For  even  in  them 
two  little  visits,  when  I'd  done  most  o'  the 
talk  myself,  I'd  got  dreffle  fond  on  him.  You 
know  I  allers  liked  boys,  partikerly  boys 
raised  in  the  country  deestricks.  An'  up  to 
this  time  an'  quite  a  spell  arterwards  I  never 
guessed  he  was  anything  but  a  boy,  jest  a 
common,  ord'nary  boy.  Well,  he  kept  corn- 
in'.  Every  single  arternoon,  jest  about  six 
o'clock,  or  a  speck  earlier  or  later,  I  begun  to 
smell  a  sort  o'  pepp'minty  smell,  an'  in  come 
that  boy,  walked  up  to  me,  with  his  eyes  all 
shinin',  lookin'  pleased  an'  sort  o'  excited,  an' 
says,  "Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  ?" 

Then  he'd  speak.    They  was  diff'rent  kinds 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  249 

o'  pieces;  some  was  verses  an'  some  wasn't. 
But  they  was  all  nice,  pretty  pieces.  There 
was  one  I  remember  about  a  boy  standin'  on 
the  deck  of  a  ship  afire,  an'  how  he  stood  an' 
stood  an'  stood,  an'  wouldn't  set  down  a  min 
ute.  Another  r'lated  to  the  breakin'  waves, 
an'  how  they  dashed  up  real  high.  An'  there 
was  a  long  one  that  didn't  rhyme,  about  Ro 
mans  an*  countrymen  an'  lovers;  he  did  speak 
that  jest  beautiful. 

Then  he'd  hold  out  one  arm  straight  an'  tell 
how  nobody  never  heerd  a  drum  nor  a  fun'ral 
note  the  time  they  buried  somebody  in  a  aw 
ful  hurry.  Agin  he'd  start  off  speechifyin' 
about  its  bein'  a  real  question  arter  all  wheth 
er  you  hadn't  better  be,  or  hadn't  better  not 
be.  That  one  seemed  to  be  a  kind  o'  riddle; 
not  much  sense  to  it.  An'  there  was  a  loud 
one  where  he  jest  insisted  that  our  chains  is 
forged.  "Their  clankin',"  he  says,  "may  be 
heerd  on  the  plains  o'  Boston."  I  b'lieve 
'twas  in  that  one  he  kep'  a-sayin',  "Let  it 
come;  I  repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come.  Gentle 
men  may  cry  peace,  peace,  but  there  ain't  no 
peace,"  an'  so  on.  Real  el'quent  'twas,  I  hold. 


SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

An'  I  growed  so  proud  o'  that  boy.  By  this 
time  I  knowed  a  good  deal  about  him,  for 
I'd  have  long  talks  with  him  'most  every  day. 
That  is,  I  thought  I  was  havin'  long  talks  with 
him;  but  allers,  arter  he'd  gone,  I'd  rec'lect  he 
hadn't  really  said  anything.  But  tennerate, 
strange  as  it  seems,  I  did  know  lots  more 
about  him  every  time.  As  I  said  afore,  his 
name  was  Norvle.  His  folks  was  plain  farm- 
in'  people.  You  know  he  spoke  of  his  pa's 
keepin'  sheep  the  fust  time  he  come.  An' 
'twas  up  in  the  mountins  they  lived;  prob'- 
ly  somewheres  in  the  White  Mountins,  this 
State.  I  know  once  he  spoke  o'  Conway  's  if 
he  lived  round  there.  That  was  in  a  piece 
about  there  bein'  jest  seven  children  in  their 
fam'ly.  He  was  real  partikler  about  the  quan 
tity,  an'  kep'  callin'  attention  to  the  fact  that 
there  was  exackly  seven  ;  no  more,  no  less. 
He  says, 

"Two  of  us  at  Conway  dwells, 
An'  two  has  gone  to  sea  " ; 

an'  he  went  on  to  say, 

"Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lays," 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  251 

(that  was  him  an'  another,  I  s'pose  now),  but 
still  says  he, 

"  Seven  boys  an'  girls  is  we." 

I  was  sorry  he  hadn't  been  brought  up  near 
the  water  as  my  boys  had,  with  the  great  big 
sea  to  look  at  an'  sail  on.  No  wonder  he 
spoke  o'  the  crampin'  hills.  It  allers  seemed 
to  me  dreffle  crampin'  to  be  shut  up  amongst 
the  hills  an'  away  from  the  salt-water. 

An'  now  he  was  off  from  home  an'  real  lone 
some,  so  'twas  a  comfort  to  him  to  come  over 
an'  see  me,  a  plain,  self-respectin'  country 
woman,  like  his  ma  an'  his  aunts.  So  I  about 
made  up  my  mind  to  take  charge  on  him,  do 
for  him,  an' — if  his  folks  would  let  me — sort 
o'  adopt  him,  in  the  place  o'  my  own  boys 
layin'  in  Portsmouth  graveyard. 

I  never  's  long  's  I  live  shall  forgit  the  day  I 
found  out  he  wa'n't  a  boy,  a  common,  ord'- 
nary  boy,  but  a  ghost.  He'd  jest  come  in,  an' 
was  sayin'  his  piece,  when  the  grocer  come  to 
the  door  with  some  things. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Norvle,"  I  says,  for  I  didn't 
like  to  lose  a  word  of  his  speeches,  I  liked  'em 


252  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

all  so,  an'  I  went  to  the  door.  But  as  I  opened 
it  an'  let  the  man  in,  I  heerd  the  boy  goin' 
right  on  speakin'.  So  I  says  to  the  grocer 
man,  in  a  kind  o'  whisper,  beck'nin'  as  I  spoke, 
"Jest  come  in  an'  hear  this  boy!"  For  I  was 
real  proud  of  him,  an'  glad  of  a  chance  to  show 
him  off. 

The  man  looked  rather  s'prised,  but  he  fol- 
lered  me  in,  an'  we  both  stood  there  by  the 
door,  list'nin'  to  the  little  feller.  That  is,  /was 
list'nin'  with  all  my  ears,  for  'twas  one  o'  his 
very  best,  about  England  may  's  well  'tempt  a 
dam  up  the  waters  o'  the  Nile  with  bulrushes. 
But  when  I  looked  round  at  the  man,  smilin'  at 
him  an'  noddin'  my  head,  's  if  to  say,  "Ain't 
he  smart  ?"  I  see  he  wa'n't  'pearin'  to  hear 
anything  'tall.  He  was  lookin'  at  me,  an'  then 
round,  an'  seemin'  so  dumfoundered. 

"What's  the  matter  o'  you  ?"  he  says. 
"What's  up?" 

Norvle  was  jest  closin'  then,  an'  I  waited 
till  he'd  made  his  bow,  an'  then  I  says  agin, 
"Wait  a  minute,  Norvle,  an'  then  we'll  have 
our  talk."  Then  I  turned  round  to  the  grocer, 
an'  I  says,  "  Don't  he  speak  fust-rate  ?" 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  253 

"  What  you  talkin'  about  ?"  says  he.  "  Got 
a  sunstroke  ?" 

Somehow  I  knowed  all  at  once  that  he 
wa'n't  foolin',  an'  that  he  didn't  see  nor  hear 
what  I  see  an'  hear  so  plain,  so  plain.  An'  I 
knowed  more'n  that,  for  that  one  little  thing 
opened  my  eyes  that  I  jest  wouldn't  open  till 
then, 'an  I  couldn't  shet  'em  agin.  I  felt  queer 
an'  dizzy,  my  head  swum,  an'  1  put  out  my 
hands  to  keep  from  fallin'.  The  man  stiddied 
me,  helped  me  into  my  chair,  fetched  me  some 
water,  an'  I  was  well  enough  arter  a  little  to 
speak.  I  told  him  I  felt  better,  an'  he  could 
go;  so  he  went  away.  I  looked  for  Norvle, 
but  he  wasn't  there.  There  was  jest  a  little 
smell  o'  pepp'mint  in  the  air,  but  the  boy'd 
gone.  I  was  glad  he  had,  for  I  wanted  to  be 
all  alone  for  a  spell. 

Well,  you  can't  understand  anything  about 
what  I  went  through  then;  nobody  can.  To 
folks  I'm  jest  a  queer  old  woman  who  tells 
a  com'cal  ghost  story  out  of  her  stupid  old 
head.  It  wa'n't  very  com'cal  to  me  that  day. 
For  I'd  got  so  fond  o'  that  boy.  I  allers  liked 
'em;  an'  I'd  lost  all  I  ever  had.  An'  now  this 


254  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

one  had  come  to  me  when  I  was  so  lonesome 
an'  low  in  my  mind,  an'  I'd  gone  an  took  him 
right  into  my  heart.  An'  he  wa'n't  a  boy 
at  all,  but  a  g'host!  That  meant  so  much. 
Queer 's  it  seems,  the  fust  thought  that  struck 
me  was  this:  he  wa'n't  be  or  Mm,  but  jest  //. 
Then  I  remembered  how  I'd  planned  some 
new  clothes  for  him.  But  ghosts  don't  wear 
out  their  clothes.  An'  I'd  meant  —  if  his  folks 
would  let  me — to  adopt  him;  bring  him  up 
like  my  own.  How  ever  could  I  adopt  a  ghost  ? 
Wa'n't  it  impossible  ?  Come  to  think  o'  it, 
could  I  have  dealin's  in  any  way  with  a  ghost  ? 
We'd  allers  been  a  respect'ble  family;  none 
more  so  in  all  New  Hampshire ;  a  religious 
fam'ly  too,  orth'dox,  every  single  one.  Never, 
's  fur 's  I'd  heerd,  was  there  a  ghost  of  any 
kind  mixed  up  with  ary  branch  o'  the  Jen- 
nesses  for  gen'rations.  To  be  sure,  there  was 
a  story  of  one  that  appeared  to  one  o'  the 
Fosses,  connected  by  marriage  with  the  Jen- 
nesses,  'way  back  fifty  years  or  more.  But 
that  one  never  showed  itself;  'twas  only  a  sort 
o'  weepin'  an'  groanin'  an'  complainin'  noise 
goin'  through  the  house  at  night.  An'  they 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  255 

never  encouraged  it  a  mite,  but  sent  for  old 
Parson  Williams  an'  had  him  pray  at  it  till  it 
cleared  out.  Then  they  aired  the  house  thor 
oughly,  an'  never  had  a  sign  of  it  agin.  But 
here  was  I  talkin'  with  one,  'sociatin'  with  it, 
gettin'  fond  on  it,  an'  really  talkin'  of  adoptin' 
it.  What  was  I  goin'  to  do  ?  What  was  I 
goin'  not  to  do  ?  Over  an'  over  in  my  mind 
I  went  at  that,  an'  little  sleep  I  got  that  night, 
I  tell  you.  As  I  said  afore,  we  was  brought  up 
in  a  pious  fam'ly,  an'  my  religion,  small  's  it 
was  to  what  it  oughter  been,  had  brought  me 
through  all  my  troubles  so  fur,  as  nothin'  else 
could  'a'  done.  So  I  prayed  a  good  deal  that 
night,  an'  read  my  Bible  lots.  An'  bimeby — 
'most  mornin'  'twas — I  begun  to  get  red  o' 
that  whirlin',  scaret  kind  o'  thinkin',  an'  to  look 
at  things  stiddier  an'  easier.  Mebbe  'twas  the 
prayin' ;  anyway  I  got  all  o'  a  suddin  so  's  to 
see  the  matter  reasonable  an'  cipher  it  out  plain 
for  myself.  Twas  about  this  way  I  went  at  it. 
Fust  place  I  says  to  myself:  "What's  a  ghost, 
anyway?  Why,  it's  a  sperrit.  An'  what's  a 
sperrit  ?  Why,  it's  a  soul.  Well,  there  ain't  no 
harm  in  a  soul;  we've  all  got  'em.  But  then," 


256  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

thinks  I  to  myself,  "what's  this  soul  doin' 
here  ?  Where's  it  been  sence  the  boy  died  ?" 
Well,  you  see,  I  knowed  too  much  about  heav 
en,  from  Scripter  an'  sermons  an'  all,  to  think 
that  a  soul  that  once  got  there  would  leave  it  to 
traipse  round  here  agin  an'  speak  pieces.  So 
I  had  to  feel  cert'in  it  hadn't  ever  got  to  heav 
en  'tall.  An'  as  for  the  other  place — why,  you 
never,  never  in  the  world,  could  'a'  made  me 
bleeve  that  Norvle  had  been  there.  He  wa'n't 
that  kind,  I  knowed.  'Twasn't  jest  because  I'd 
got  so  fond  o'  him,  but  I  felt  sure,  sure,  sure 
that  he'd  never  been  there,  in  that  awful  suf- 
f  rin'  an'  sin.  He'd  a  showed  it  if  he  had. 
Now  you  see  I  was  orth'dox,  an'  my  folks  afore 
me,  an'  I'd  never  even  heerd  that  any  one 
thought  there  might  be  another  place  besides 
them  two  local'ties.  Sence  then  I've  read 
somewheres  that  there  is  sexes  who  bleeve 
that,  but  I'd  never  heerd  a  hint  of  it  then.  But 
seein'  that  he  hadn't  been  to  ary  o'  them  two 
places,  then  where  had  he  been,  an'  why  did 
he  come  to  me  ?  When  I  got  to  that  p'int  I 
had  to  stop  short  agin,  an  havin'  nothin'  better 
to  do,  I  went  to  prayin'.  An'  jest 's  the  morn- 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  257 

in'  light  shone  into  my  window,  there  come  a 
light  shinin'  right  into  my  heart,  an'  I  see  it  all. 
Twas  this  way.  Norvle  hadn't  been  fetched 
up  by  religious  folks.  For,  strange  's  it  may 
seem,  there's  people  like  that,  even  in  a  Chris 
tian  land.  He'd  been  a  well-meanin'  boy,  an' 
if  he'd  ever  been  learnt  he'd  'a'  took  right  hold 
o'  religion,  an'  glad  enough  too.  But  he  lived 
'way  off  in  the  mountins,  there  wa'n't  no  meet- 
in' -house  within  miles,  an'  his  folks  was  like 
heathen.  Even  the  deestrick  school  was  too 
fur  off  for  him  to  go,  or  else  his  pa  wouldn't 
spare  him  to  'tend.  So  he'd  growed  up  ig- 
n'runt  of  all  he'd  oughter  know,  never  seein'  a 
Bible,  hearin'  a  sermon,  or  touchin'  a  cat'chism 
in  all  his  life.  He'd  learnt  how  to  read  some 
how,  an'  up  in  the  garret  he'd  come  acrost  a 
book  o'  pieces  sech  as  boys  speak  to  school. 
An'  he'd  took  to  'em,  studied  'em,  an'  got  so 
he  could  say  'em  all.  But  he  had  to  do  it  all 
by  hisself.  Nobody  ever  heerd  him  say  'em. 
Nobody  would  listen  when  he  tried  to  show 
off.  That's  terr'ble  hard  on  a  boy.  They  like 
so  to  be  praised  up  an'  noticed  when  they've 
done  anything.  Why  Peleg,  the  youngest  o' 


258  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

my  three  boys,  you  know,  allers  set  so  by  my 
lookin'  at  his  whittlin',  or  hearin'  him  sing,  or 
praisin'  the  pictur's  he  drawed  on  his  slate. 
But  bimeby  Norvle  died;  I  don't  know  how. 
I  never  was  able  to  find  that  out  ;  whether 
'twas  o'  sickness  or  an  accident.  But  he  died 
without  ever  havin'  been  grounded  in  the  right 
things.  An' — oh,  don't  you  see  it  now?  Don't 
you  know  what  come  to  me  that  early  morn- 
in',  as  1  laid  cryin'  an'  prayin'  in  my  bed 
there  ?  He — I  mean  it,  Norvle's  poor  little  ig- 
n'runt  soul — had  been  let  to  come  to  me;  me 
that  loved  boys  an'  had  lost  'em  all.  An'  I  was 
to  be  the  one  to  learn  it  what  he  hadn't  never 
had  a  chance  to  pick  up  afore  he  died.  So  I 
see  I  needn't  stop  bein'  fond  o'  it,  but  go  on 
lovin'  it  harder  an'  harder,  till  I'd  loved  it  right 
straight  up  into  heaven,  where  it  would  'a' 
been  now  but  for  lack  o'  information. 

I  tell  you  that  was  a  solemn  day  to  me.  I 
was  happy  one  way,  sorry  another,  an'  I  felt 
such  a  awful  responsibility.  I  tell  you  'tain't 
many  that  has  sech  a  heft  put  on  'em  as  that. 
Jest  think  of  it!  the  hull  religious  trainin'  of  a 
ghost !  I  was  busy  all  day  preparin'  for  it.  I 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  259 

looked  up  all  my  books,  the  ones  I  used  when 
I  learnt  the  boys,  an'  the  Sabbath-school  ones. 
An'  I  made  a  kind  o'  plan  how  I  was  to  begin, 
an'  how  long  'twould  take  to  go  through  all 
the  doctrines  an'  beliefs.  Our  folks  was  Con- 
gregationals,  an'  though  I  wa'n't  as  set  in  my 
ways  about  my  own  Church  as  some  be,  still, 
as  Norvle  didn't  seem  to  have  any  partikler 
leanin'  to  ary  other  belief,  I  meant  to  bring 
him  up  as  I'd  been  brought.  So  o'  course  I 
had  to  begin  with  the  fall,  an'  I  studied  on  that 
'most  all  day.  As  the  time  drawed  nigh  for 
the  visit  I  was  dreffle  worked  up.  Seemed  's 
if  I  couldn't  scasly  bear  it,  to  see  the  boy  I'd 
got  so  attached  to  an'  built  so  much  on,  an' 
know  that  he  wa'n't  a  boy  at  all,  but  a  ghost. 
I  was  settin'  there,  in  my  old  seat  by  the  win 
dow,  an'  for  quite  a  spell  arter  the  pepp'mint 
scent  come  into  the  room  I  wouldn't  turn  my 
head.  Fact  is,  I  was  cryin'  so  't  I  could  hard 
ly  see  out  of  my  eyes.  But  bimeby  I  looked 
round,  an',  jest  's  I  thought,  there  it  stood. 
My  eyes  was  pretty  wet,  but  I  winked  out  the 
water 's  well 's  I  could.  An'  's  soon  's  I  could 
see  its  face  plain,  I  knowed  that  it  knowed  I 


260  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

knowed.  It  didn't  have  that  pleased,  shinin' 
look  in  its  eyes,  but  was  sort  o'  doubtful  an' 
scary.  It  stepped  slow  an'  softly,  as  if  it  was 
goin'  to  stop  every  step,  an'  when  'twas  in 
front  o'  me,  it  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  an'  so 
mournful, "  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak 
my  piece  ?" 

I  brushed  the  water  out  o'  my  eyes  an'  says, 
real  hearty  an'  cordial,  "Yes,  deary,  course  I 
do." 

He  begun  in  sech  a  low,  shaky  voice : 

"  Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  airth, 
A  youth  to  fortin  an'  to  fame  unknown." 

Poor  little  feller!  I  jest  ached  for  him,  an' 
my  throat  felt  all  swelled  up  's  if  I  had  the 
quinsy.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  minute  to 
give  up  the  rest  o'  my  days,  if  it  took  that 
long,  to  savin'  that  little  soul  o'  Norvle's.  An' 
he  shouldn't  never  feel,  if  I  could  help  it,  that 
I  didn't  exackly  approve  o'  ghosts,  or  thought 
a  mite  less  o'  him  for  bein'  one.  Then  I  be 
gun  my  religious  teachin'.  As  I  said  afore, 
my  startin'-p'int  was  the  fall.  But  o'  course  I 
had  to  allude  to  the  creation  fust,  Adam  an' 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  261 

Eve,  an'  all  that.  Then  I  larnt  him  the  verse 
out  o'  the  New  England  Primer  about  "In 
Adam's  fall,"  an'  that  led  right  up,  you  see,  to 
'riginal  sin,  nat'ral  depravity,  an'  all  that  relates 
to  them  doctrines.  I  had  to  begin  jest  as  you 
would  with  a  baby,  you  see,  right  at  the  el'- 
mentary  things.  Then  I  took  the  Westmin 
ster  Shorter,  an'  learnt  him  from  "  man's  chief 
end"  to  the  decrees.  Twas  a  short  lesson, 
but  I  didn't  want  to  tire  him  the  fust  time. 
He  seemed  real  int'rested,  an'  I  forgot  for  a 
minute  he  was  a  ghost,  an'  I  says,  "Norvle, 
s'pose  you  take  this  cat'chism  home,  an' — " 
I  stopped  right  off  short,  for  I  rec'lected  he 
hadn't  got  any  home,  but  was  jest  a  wand'r- 
in',  ramblin',  uneasy  ghost.  An'  oh,  where 
did  he  sleep  nights  ?  Thinkin'  o'  that  made 
the  tears  come  agin,  an'  I  turned  away  to  sop 
'em  up.  When  I  looked  round,  it  was  gone. 

You  see  I  say  "it"  sometimes,  an'  then 
agin  I  say  "him."  I  know  I'd  oughter  say 
"it"  all  the  time;  but — well, 'way  down  in 
my  old  heart  it's  "him"  an'  "he"  allers,  an' 
he's  no  diff'nt  from  my  other  three  boys. 

I  was  a  mite  nervous  next  time.     I  wasn't 


262  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

quite  certin  I'd  gone  to  work  right  with  my 
lessons.  I'd  had  some  exper'ence  teachin', 
what  with  my  own  boys  an'  a  Sabbath-school 
class.  But  how  did  I  know  but  a  ghost's 
mind  was  all  diff'ent,  an'  couldn't  take  in  the 
same  things  in  the  same  way  ?  Then  he 
didn't  have  no  books,  an'  couldn't  look  over 
the  lesson  at  home.  So  mebbe — I  kep'  sayin' 
to  myself — he  don't  remember  a  single  word 
about  Adam,  or  his  sin,  an'  the  terr'ble  con 
sequences.  But  I  needn't  'a'  worried  ;  for  I 
hadn't  hardly  time  to  answer  that  same  old 
question,  "Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak 
my  piece  ?"  afore  he  started  off: 

"Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen f 
Then  me  an'  you  an'  all  on  us  fell  down." 

Could  a  perfessor  in  the  the'logical  sem'nary 
'a'  put  it  better  ?  The  real  cat'chism  doctrine, 
you  see,  "all  mankind  by  the  fall,"  an'  so  on. 
So  I  begun  to  feel  encouraged.  This  time  I 
took  foreord'nation  an'  election,  an'  easy  things 
like  that.  Eternal  punishment  goes  along  o' 
that  lesson  by  rights,  but  'twas  sech  a  pers'nal 
subjeck  for  that  poor  soul  that  I  skipped  it  that 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  263 

once.  So  it  went  on  day  arter  day.  I  didn't 
allers  keep  to  the  doctrines.  I  made  'lowances 
for  Norvle's  bringin'  up,  an'  had  more  int'rest- 
in'  things  now  an'  agin,  like  who  was  the  fust 
man,  the  strongest  man,  the  meekest  man,  an' 
them.  An'  seein'  he  was  so  fond  o'  pieces,  I 
learnt  him  pretty  verses  out  o'  the  New  Eng 
land  Primer,  like 

"Vashti  for  pride 
Was  set  aside," 
or 

"  Elijah  hid, 
By  ravens  fed." 

He  was  so  tickled  with  that  piece  about 

"  Good  children  must 
Fear  God  all  day, 
Parents  obey, 
No  false  thing  say," 

an'  so  on.  An'  he  liked  about  John  Rogers, 
an'  Agur's  prayer,  an'  took  right  off  to  that  ad 
vice  at  the  very  eend  o'  the  Primer,  by  the  late 
rev'rent  an'  ven'rable  Mr.  Nathan'el  Clap,  o' 
Newport,  on  Rhode  Island. 

But  the  days  was  slippin'  by,  an'  I  begun  to 
worry.     Twas  September  now,  an'  my  time 


264  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

was  up  early  in  October,  for  the  fam'ly  was 
comin'  home  then.  An'  go  's  fast  's  I  could  I 
hadn't  been  able  to  git  beyond  "the  mis'ry  o' 
that  estate  whereinto  man  fell"  in  the  caf- 
chism,  an'  the  buildin'  o'  the  temple  in  the  Bi 
ble.  All  about  sin  an'  punishment  an'  the  old 
dispensation,  you  see,  an'  never  a  speck  o' 
light  an'  hope  for  that  poor  sperrit.  For  o' 
course  I  had  to  go  reg'lar  an'  take  subjecks  as 
they  come,  an'  didn't  dast  skip  over  into  the 
New  Test'ment  comfort  till  its  turn  come.  I 
was  in  a  heap  o'  trouble  about  it,  when  all  of 
a  suddin  another  chance  was  give  me.  Old 
Mr.  Rice  come  to  me  with  a  letter  in  his  hand, 
an'  asked  me  if  I  couldn't  be  induced  to  stay 
on  an'  take  care  o'  the  house  through  the  win 
ter.  Seems  that  one  o'  the  children — Mis'  Da- 
vis's,  I  mean — had  took  cold,  an'  its  throat  or 
lungs  or  something  was  weak.  So  the  doc 
tor  had  ordered  them  to  take  her  'crost  the 
water,  an'  they  was  goin'  right  off,  without 
comin'  home  at  all.  Wasn't  it  wonderful  ? 
A  int'position  o'  Providence,  cert'in  sure,  an' 
I  thanked  the  Lord  on  my  bended  knees.  I 
kep'  on  now  in  the  reg'lar  way,  not  havin' 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  265 

to  hurry,  givin'  all  the  time  I  wanted  to  the 
doctrines.  For  there's  nothin'  like  bein'  well 
grounded  in  them.  Norvle  never  said  much, 
but  he  showed  plain  enough  that  he  took  'em 
all  in,  by  the  approprit  pieces  he  spoke  arter 
each  lesson.  I  wish  I  could  rec'lect  'em  all; 
they  was  wonderful.  I  know  one  time  we 
had  free-will,  an'  'twas  the  most  excitin'  occa 
sion.  I  got  so  worked  up  over  it,  showin' 
how  'twas  consistent  with  election  an'  fore- 
ord'nation,  an'  argifyin'  that  we  was  jest  as 
free  to  pick  an'  choose  as — as — anybody.  An' 
next  time  he  up  an'  speaks,  "Hard,  hard  in 
deed  was  the  contest  for  freedom  an'  the 
struggle  for  independence." 

Oh,  'twas  good  as  a  sermon !  An'  agin,  ar 
ter  a  course  o'  lessons  on  the  power  o'  the 
devil  an'  how  to  resist  him,  he  spoke  that 
powerful  piece,  "  They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are 
weak,  unable  to  scope  with  so  form'dable  a 
adversary;  but  when  shall  we  be  stronger?" 
An'  how  he  did  go  on  about  "Shall  we  'quire 
the  means  o'  effectooal  resistance  by  lyin' 
s'pinely  on  our  backs  an'  huggin'  the  d'lusive 
phantom  o'  hope?"  an'  all  that.  One  day  I 


266  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

talked  very  strong  about  the  Cath'lics,  warned 
him  ag'inst  the  Pope  o'  Rome,  an'  forbid  him 
ever  to  go  near  popish  folks.  Next  time  he 
come  he  up  an'  spoke  a  piece  about 

"  Banished  from  Rome  ?    What's  banished  but  set 

free 
From  daily  contracts?" 

That  showed  his  views  about  the  Pope  plain 
enough,  I  think. 

Oh,  I  never  see  a  boy — let  alone  a  ghost — 
take  in  truths  like  him.  An'  it  done  me  good 
too.  I'd  got  a  little  rusty  on  them  doctrinal 
b'liefs  myself,  an'  it  rubbed  up  my  knowledge 
wonderful.  I  studied  up  days,  an'  could  hard 
ly  wait  for  class-time  to  come;  an' jest 's  soon 
's  I  had  the  fust  sniff  o'  pepp'mint  arternoons, 
I'd  be  ready  to  start  off.  But  I'd  allers  give 
him  his  chance  fust,  an'  I  growed  to  love  that 
one  thing  he  said  every  time,  the  only  thing  I 
ever  heerd  him  reely  say,  ''Don't  you  want 
to  hear  me  speak  my  piece  ?"  It  seemed  to 
mean  more  an'  more  each  day,  an'  bimeby 
was  'most  like  a  whole  conversation.  Jest 
from  that  one  remark  I  begun  to  know  all 
about  his  past  life  an'  doin's,  his  folks,  his 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  267 

home,  an'  all.  A  poor,  empty,  neglected,  lone 
some  life  'twas,  an'  my  heart  ached  over  it  as 
it  come  out  day  by  day  in  our  talks.  To 
think  o'  his  never  havin'  had  what  my  boys 
had  so  much  on,  all  their  days :  meetin's,  Sab 
bath-schools,  cat'chisms,  preparat'ry  lectur's, 
monthly  concerts,  prayer-meetin's;  he  never'd 
had  one  o'  them  blessed  priv'leges  in  his  hull 
narrer  little  life.  Well,  as  I  said,  I  enjoyed  the 
doctrinal  teachin',  the  Old  Test'ment  an'  all; 
but  I  was  awful  glad  when  with  a  clear  con 
science  I  could  turn  over  the  leaf  an'  show  him 
t'other  side.  He'd  been  gettin'  rather  low  in  his 
mind  lately,  an'  no  wonder.  For  I  hadn't  felt 
to  tell  him  anything  yet  but  about  our  dreffle 
state  o'  sin,  the  punishment  we  deserved,  an' 
the  justice  o'  Him  who  could  give  it  to  us. 
To  be  sure,  I  got  him  to  the  p'int  where  he 
knowed  'twould  be  all  perfectly  right,  con- 
sid'rin'  the  circumstances,  if  he  should  be  sent 
right  down  to  the  place,  as  the  hymn  says, 

"  Where  crooked  ways  o'  sinners  lead." 

He  was  resigned  to  it,  but  he  wa'n't  exackly 
glad,  an'  he  looked  rather  solemn.  So  I  was 


268  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

pleased  enough  when  I  begun  to  let  in  a  mite 
o'  sunshinin'  an'  told  him  the  gospel  story. 
An'  I  declare  it  never'd  meant  so  much  to  me 
myself,  church  member  as  I'd  been  for  more'n 
a  dozen  years,  as  when  I  begun  to  tell  it  to 
that  poor  little  ghost.  I  begun  way  at  the 
very  beginnin',  an'  it  was  quite  a  spell  afore 
he  see  what  was  comin'.  He  thought  I  was 
jest  givin'  an  account  of  a  common,  ord'nary 
boy.  I  see  that  was  the  way  to  int'rest  him, 
so  I  told  about  Him  as  a  little  feller,  with  his 
mother,  an'  in  the  carpenter's  shop,  an'  round 
the  water  an'  the  shore  with  the  fishermen  an' 
sailors.  I  was  thinkin'  o'  my  own  boys  on  the 
salt-water  at  Portsmouth  an'  Kitt'ry  when  I 
dwelt  so  on  that  part.  But  pretty  soon  I  rec'- 
lected  how  Norvle  was  fetched  up  on  risin' 
ground,  so  1  told  about  His  bein'  so  fond  o' 
the  hills,  goin'  up  "into  a  mountin  apart,"  as 
the  Bible  says,  to  pray  an'  to  preach,  or  to  set 
there  alone.  An'  how  Norvle's  face  did  light 
up  then,  an' his  whity-blue  eyes  shine!  I 
don't  doubt  he  was  thinkin'  o'  the  New  Hamp 
shire  hills.  For  crampin'  's  they  be,  folks  that 
lives  among  'em  do  learn  to  love  'em  lots. 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  269 

So  it  went  on,  till  it  come  nigh  the  last  part 
o'  the  narr'tive.     No  need  for  me  to  remind 
you  o'  that.      I'd  knowed  it  allers,  learnt  it  to 
my  Sabbath -school  scholars,  heerd  it  talked 
an'  preached  an'  sung  all  my  born  days,  but 
'twas  like  a  bran'-new  thing  's  I  told  it  to  Nor- 
vle,  an'  the  tears  jest  ran  down  my  face  like 
rain.     He  didn't  cry.     I  guess  ghosts  never 
does.      But  oh,  how  mournful  an'  sorry  he 
looked,  with  his  eyes  opened  wide  an'  lookin' 
straight  into  my  face,  an'  his  lips  kind  o'  trem- 
blin' !     For  quite  a  spell  now  he'd  been  speak- 
in'  diff'ent  sort  o'  pieces  —  hymns  an'  sech. 
An'  now  he  begun  to  say  sech  beautiful  ones, 
hymns  an'  psalms  I  hadn't  even  thought  on  for 
years.    Some  o'  'em  I  learnt  afore  I  could  read, 
from  hearin'  mother  say  'em  over  'n'  over  to 
me  as  I  set  on  the  little  cricket  at  her  feet. 
How  I  felt  as  he'd  say,  soft  an'  gentle  like, 
"  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my  piece  ?" 
an'  then  foller  it  right  up  with  one  o'  them 
sweet  old  hymns  I  always  rec'lected  in  moth 
er's  voice!     Oh,  I  loved  him  harder  'n'  harder 
every  day !     He  was  jest's  homely's  ever,  jest's 
freckled,  his  hair  jest 's  reddish-yeller  an'  mus- 


270  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

sy,  but  he  looked  diff'ent,  somehow.  There 
was  a  kind  o'  rested,  quiet,  satisfied  look  come 
on  his  face  by  spells  that  made  him  prettier 
to  look  at.  An'  bimeby  that  look  come  to 
stay.  I  couldn't  make  you  understand  'f  I 
tried — an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  try — how  I  see  what 
was  happenin'  in  that  soul.  But  I  did  see.  I 
knowed  the  very  hour  —  the  minute  'most  — 
when  he  see  the  hull  truth  an'  give  up  to  it. 
There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  powerful  convic 
tion  o'  sin.  Mebbe  ghosts  don't  need  to  go 
through  that.  P'r'aps  it's  their  bodies  that 
makes  that  work  so  strong  in  folks,  an'  ghosts 
'ain't  got  any  bodies.  So  'twas  a  easy, 
smooth  specie  o'  conversion,  an'  Norvle  his- 
self  didn't  seem  to  know  when  it  happened. 
He  kep'  comin'  jest  the  same,  allers  askin' 
his  little  question,  an'  speakin'  his  piece.  An' 
allers  there  come  with  him  that  pepp'minty 
scent.  To  this  day  that  common,  ev'ry-day, 
physicky  smell  brings  more  things  back  to  me 
than  even  cinnamon -roses  or  day-lilies  like 
them  in  the  old  garden  on  the  Odiorne's  P'int 
road.  I  went  on  all  the  time  with  my  teachin'. 
I  knowed  Norvle  was  all  right  now,  an'  safe 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  271 

for  ever  'n'  ever.  But  there's  plenty  o'  things 
even  perfessors  need  to  know,  an'  I  did  so  like 
to  learn  him. 

'Twas  gettin'  past  the  middle  o'  December 
now.  One  day  I  walked  a  little  ways  down 
street  for  exercise  an'  fresh  air,  an'  all  to  once 
there  come  over  me  sech  a  strong  rec'lection 
o'  Portsmouth  woods.  I  didn't  know  why 
'twas  for  a  minute,  but  then  I  begun  to  smell 
a  piny,  woodsy  smell,  an'  I  see  right  on  the 
side-walk  a  lot  o'  evergreens — pine  an'  hem 
lock  an'  spruce.  Then  I  remembered  that 
Christmas  was  comin'.  You  see,  pa  an'  ma 
had  allers  made  a  good  deal  o'  Christmas. 
Congregationals  in  old  times  never  done  so. 
I  know  pa  said  that  one  time  old  Parson  Pick- 
erin',  o'  Greenland,  sent  back  a  turkey  that 
gran'f  ther  Jenness  give  him  Christmas,  sayin' 
he'd  ruther  have  it  some  other  time  than  on  a 
popish  hollerday.  But  we  was  fetched  up  to 
keep  the  day.  Why,  up  to  the  very  last 
Christmas  o'  their  lives  my  three  boys  hung 
their  blue  yarn  stockin's  up  by  the  fireplace, 
though  Amos  was  past  nineteen  then,  an' 
Ezry  goin'  on  seventeen.  So  'twas  a  time  full 


272  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

o'  rec'lectin'  for  me.  The  year  afore  I'd  jest  put 
it  all  out  o'  my  head  an'  tried  to  forget  what 
day  'twas.  But  I  couldn't  forget  it  here.  'Twas 
in  the  air ;  'twas  ev'rywhere  you  went.  The 
stores  was  full  o'  playthings,  folks  was  traip- 
sin'  through  the  streets  with  their  hands  an' 
arms  full  o'  bundles,  ev'rybody  that  passed 
you  was  talkin'  about  it,  an'  'twas  no  use  try- 
in'  to  git  red  on  it.  It  made  me  choky  an* 
wat'ry  -  eyed  all  the  time,  an'  I  couldn't  see 
nothin'  ary  blessed  minute  but  the  old  wood 
fire  at  home,  with  the  big  yarn  stockin's  hang- 
in'  there.  But  one  day  arter  Norvle  had  left, 
an'  the  pepp'mint  scent  hadn't  quite  gone  out 
o'  the  room,  I  begun  to  think  why  I  couldn't 
make  a  Christmas  for  him.  Now  don't  laugh 
at  me.  I  wa'n't  a  fool.  I  knowed  's  well 's 
you  do  that  ghosts  don't  want  presents  or 
keep  days.  But  I  was  so  lonesome,  an'  jest 
hungry  for  a  stockin'  to  fill — a  boy's  stockin'. 
"So  why,  "I  says  to  myself/ 'shouldn't  I  make 
bleeve — 'play '  's  the  children  says — that  Nor 
vle  wants  a  real  old-fashioned  Christmas,  an' 
I  can  give  him  one  ?"  The  next  time  he  come 
1  led  up  to  the  subject  an'  found  out,'s  I  sus- 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  273 

picioned,  that  he'd  never  heerd  o'  Christmas 
or  Santy  Glaus  in  all  his  born  days.  So  I  told 
him  all  about  it,  an'  he  was  so  int'rested. 

Fust  I  told  him  whose  birthday  'twas,  o' 
course,  an'  why  folks  kep'  it.  Then  I  told  him 
all  about  fam'lies  all  gettin'  together  at  that 
time,  an'  comin'  home  from  everywheres,  to 
be  with  their  own  folks.  An'  I  went  on  about 
hangin'  up  stockin's  an'  fillin'  'em  with  pres 
ents.  "  An'  now,  Norvle,"  I  says,  "  I'm  goin' 
to  make  a  real  old-fashioned  Christmas  for 
you  this  year,  sech  as  we  used  to  have  in  the 
old  house  ;  sech  as  we  made  for  Amos  an' 
Ezry  an'  Peleg.  For,"  I  says,  "  you've  been 
a  real  good  boy  this  winter,  an'  I  set  as  much 
by  you  'most — p'r'aps  jest  as  much — as  I  done 
by  my  own  boys."  He  looked  dreffle  tickled, 
an'  so  'twas  settled.  How  I  did  enjoy  gettin' 
ready!  Twa'n't  so  easy  as  it  seems.  For  I'd 
set  my  heart  on  havin'  the  same  kind  o'  pres 
ents  as  we  used  to  give  the  boys,  an'  they 
wa'n't  plenty  in  New  York  city.  The  stock- 
in  was  easy  enough,  for  I  had  one  o'  Peleg's. 
You  see,  I  kind  o'  liked  to  have  some  o'  the 
boys'  things  about,  an'  I  had  some  o'  the  old 
18 


274  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

blue  feetin'  layin'  on  my  stockin'  basket  's  if 
they  was  waitin'  to  be  darned.  They  looked 
nat'ral  an'  good,  you  see.  Peleg  was  nigh 
about  Norvle's  size.  Then  I  wanted  a  partik- 
ler  specie  o'  apple,  big  an'  red  an'  shiny;  we 
called  'em  the  Boardman  reds.  I  found  some 
to  the  market  at  last.  They  didn't  exackly 
look  like  the  old  kind;  but  the  man  said  they 
was,  he'd  jest  fetched  'em  from  Portsmouth 
hisself.  The  hick'ry-nuts  I  got  easy  enough, 
an'  the  maple-sugar.  I  was  goin'  to  get  some 
pepp'mint  lozengers,  for  my  boys  all  thought 
so  much  o'  them,  but  it  seemed  too  pers'nal, 
an'  I  give  'em  up.  I  got  a  big  stick  o'  ball 
lick'rish,  though  —  boys  allers  like  that  —  an' 
some  B'gundy  pitch  to  chew.  Then  o'  course 
there  must  be  a  jack-knife.  I  found  jest  the 
right  kind,  big,  with  a  black  horn  handle  an' 
two  blades.  I  set  up  late  nights  an'  riz  early 
to  knit  a  pair  o'  red  yarn  mittens,  like  Peleg's ; 
they're  so  good  for  snowballin',  you  know. 
An'  I  wound  a  yarn  ball,  an'  covered  it  with 
leather.  I  had  a  diff'cult  time  findin'  the  fish 
hooks  an'  sinkers,  for  I  hadn't  been  round  no 
great  in  New  York,  an'  there  ain't  no  general 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  275 

store  there.  But  I  found  'em  at  last.  Right 
on  top  I  was  goin'  to  put  Pely's  little  chunky, 
leather  cover  Bible.  Mother  give  it  to  him 
the  day  he  jined  the  Church,  an'  writ  his  name 
in  her  straight  up  an'  down,  prim  handwritin'. 
I  knowed  she  an'  him  both  would  be  willin'  it 
should  go  to  this  poor  little  soul  the  Scripters 
meant  so  much  to,  an'  had  done  so  much  for. 
The  New  York  greens  didn't  satisfy  me. 
There  was  some  stuff  with  sicky  green  leaves 
an'  white,  tallery-lookin'  berries,  an'  some  all 
shinin'  an'  pricky,  with  red  fruit.  But  they 
didn't  look  nat'ral.  Bimeby  I  come  acrost 
some  ground-pine,  sech  as  growed  all  through 
the  wood  lot  behind  the  old  house,  spranglin' 
over  the  ground,  an'  some  juniper,  like  what 
spread  amongst  the  rocks  there,  with  its  little 
black  berries  an'  sharp,  scratchy  needles.  I 
couldn't  get  any  black  alder  nor  bittersweet 
berries,  an'  had  to  do  without  'em.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  what  it  was  to  me,  an'  my  poor 
empty  heart  that  had  ached  till  'twas  'most 
numb,  to  get  that  stockin'  ready.  Ev'ry  day  I 
talked  Christmas  to  Norvle,  never  lettin'  him 
know,  o'  course,  what  I  was  goin'  to  give 


276  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

him,  but  tellin'  all  about  diff'ent  Christmases 
I'd  knowed.  I  went  on  about  how  the  fam'ly 
was  allers  together,  an'  father  wore  his  best 
clothes  an'  set  to  the  head  o'  the  table,  an' 
mother  t'other  end,  an'  me  an'  the  boys  all 
there.  'Twas  nat'ral  I  s'pose,  consid'rin',  that 
I  dwelt  on  that  part  of  it,  folks  all  bein'  to 
gether  that  day,  lovin'  an'  doin'  for  their  very 
own.  Then  I  told  him  how  Christmas  Eve 
we  all  used  to  stand  together,  the  boys  an' 
me,  an'  sing  pa's  favrit  piece,  ''Home,  sweet 
Home."  I  carried  the  toon,  Peleg  sung  a  real 
sweet  second,  Ezry  had  the  high  part,  an' 
Amos  the  low.  How  it  fetched  it  all  back  to 
tell  it  over  to  him ! 

The  last  night  but  one  come — the  twenty- 
third  'twas.  Norvle  had  looked  real  mournful- 
like  lately.  Ev'ry  time  I  spoke  o'  father's 
house,  or  fam'lies  gettin'  together  or  goin' 
home  for  Christmas,  I  see  he  looked  kind  o' 
sorry  an'  's  if  he  wanted  somethin'.  But  I 
wouldn't  see  what  it  meant.  That  afternoon, 
though,  when  he'd  ast,  in  a  shaky,  still  voice, 
"Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  ?"  he  follered  it  up  with  the  dear  old 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  277 

hymn  mother  whispered  part  of,  the  very  last 
day  of  her  life — 

"Airth  has  engrossed  my  love  too  long, 
Tis  time  to  lift  my  eyes." 

He  went  on  with  all  the  verses,  an'  when  he 
come  to 

"O  let  me  mount  to  join  their  song," 

he  said  it 's  if  he  was  prayin'  to  me,  an'  sech  a 
longin'  sound  come  into  his  voice,  an'  sech  a 
longin'  look  into  his  eyes,  that  I  was  all  goose- 
flesh,  an'  so  choky.  When  he'd  finished,  I 
turned  away  to  get  my  handk'chief,  an'  when 
I  looked  back  agin  he  was  gone. 

Well,  I  s'pose  you  see  now  what  I'd  got  to 
do,  an'  what  my  plain  duty  was.  I  really  had 
knowed  it  all  along,  but  I'd  shet  my  eyes  to  it 
a  purpose  till  now;  but  I  couldn't  no  longer. 
That  poor  soul  o'  Norvle's  was  regen'rated, 
saved  cert'in  sure,  an'  what  business  had  I  to 
keep  it  down  here  any  longer?  You  see  it 
plain  enough,  but  no  one  but  me  —  an'  One 
other  —  knows  how  much  it  meant  to  me 
that  night.  "Couldn't  I,"  says  I  to  myself— 
"couldn't  I  keep  him  only  one  day  longer, 


278  SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

jest  over  that  seas'n  o'  Christmas,  so  hard, 
so  ter'ble  hard  to  bear  without  him  ?  Any 
way,  couldn't  I  have  him  till  mornin',  an'  let 
him  have  his  stockin'  ?  When  he  was  go- 
in'  to  have  sech  a  long,  long  time  up  there, 
would  jest  one  day  more  down  here  make 
any  great  diff'rence  ?"  The  answer  come 
quick  enough.  Yes,  'twould!  He  b'longed 
somewher's  else,  an'  I  must  send  him  there, 
an'  right  straight  off,  too,  even  if  it  broke  my 
heart  all  to  pieces  doin'  it. 

All  the  next  day  I  went  about  my  work 
very  softly.  It  seemed  like  the  day  o'  the 
boys'  fun'ral.  I'd  filled  the  stockin'  two  days 
afore — I  couldn't  wait — an'  there  it  laid  in  my 
room,  never,  never  to  be  hung  up,  all  bulgy 
an'  onreg'lar  an'  knobby.  I  knowed  what  ary 
bulge  meant.  That  one  by  the  ankle  was  the 
jack-knife,  an'  that  queer  place  nigh  the  knee 
was  where  the  stick  o'  lick'rish  had  got  cross 
wise  an'  poked  'way  out  each  side.  There 
was  one  Boardman  red  apple  roundin'  out  the 
toe  like  a  darnin'  ball,  an'  right  in  the  top  was 
Pely's  chunky  little  Bible  jest  showin'  above 
the  ribbed  part.  I  didn't  empty  it.  Folks 


A  SPEAKIN    GHOST.  279 

will  keep  sech  things,  you  know,  an'  it's  up 
in  my  bedroom  somewher's  now,  I  bleeve. 

Well,  Christmas-eve  come,  an'  come  quick 
— too  quick  for  me  that  time.  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  'twouldn't  never  do  to  let  Norvle 
see  how  I  felt.  I  had  a  good  deal  o'  Jenness 
grit,  an'  I  called  it  all  up  now.  So,  when  he 
come  in,  I  was  jest  as  usual,  an'  smiled  at  him 
real  pleasant ;  but  I  felt  'twouldn't  do  to  wait 
a  single  minute,  for  fear  I'd  break  down,  so 
afore  he  could  make  his  one  little  remark,  for 
the  fust  time  sence  I  knowed  him,  I  begun 
fust,  an'  he  stood  still  an'  listened. 

"Norvle,"  I  says,  speakin'  's  I  used  to  to 
the  boys'  playfellers  that  used  to  come  an'  see 
'em  an'  want  to  stay  on  an'  on — "Norvle,  I've 
had  a  real  nice  visit  with  you.  I've  enjoyed 
your  comp'ny  lots,  an'  I  wish  I  could  ask  you 
to  stay  longer.  But  it's  Christmas -eve,  you 
know,  an',  's  I've  often  told  you,  people  'd 
oughter  be  with  their  own  folks  to-night. 
You  know  now  where  your  folks  is,  least 
ways  your  Father  an'  your  Elder  Brother.  So, 
I'm  dreffle  sorry  to  seem  imperlite  an'  send 
you  off,  but — why,  this  bein'  Christmas  Eve, 


280  SEVEN    DREAMERS. 

's  I  said  afore,  I  really  think — the  best  thing 
for  you  to  do — is — to  go — Home!"  I  got  it 
out  somehow;  I  don't  see  how  I  done  it. 

Norvle  looked  right  at  me,  kind  o'  mourn- 
fle.  He  stood  stock-still,  an'  1  thought  he  was 
goin'  to  make  his  one  little  remark,  but  he 
didn't.  Jest  's  true  's  I  live,  that  boy  opened 
his  mouth  an'  begun  to  sing.  An'  oh !  what 
do  you  suppose  he  sung?  "Home,  sweet 
Home!"  He'd  never  sung  afore;  I  didn't 
know  's  he  could;  but  his  voice  was  like  a 
wood -robin  now.  An'  in  a  minute,  though 
there  wa'n't  anybody  but  him  an'  me  in  the 
room,  seemed  's  if  I  heerd  some  other  voices. 
Norvle  carried  the  toon,  but  I  heerd  a  real 
sweet  second,  an'  then  a  high  part  an'  a  low. 
Twas  jest  like  four  boys  singin'  together. 
An'  while  I  looked  at  him  the  music  sounded 
further  'n'  further  off,  till  when  he  got  to  the 
last  "sweet — sweet — home,"  I  had  to  lean 
'way  forward  to  ketch  a  sound.  An'  when  it 
stopped — why,  he  stopped.  He  didn't  go; 
he  jest  wasn't  there. 

Well,  I've  got  along  somehow.  You  do 
get  along  through  most  things,  hard  's  they 


A  SPEAKIN'  GHOST.  281 

be.  It's  more'n  forty  year  now  sence  my 
ghost  story  happened,  an'  I'm  an  old  woman. 
I'm  failin'  lately  pretty  fast,  an'  it  makes  me 
think  a  good  deal  about  goin'  home  myself  to 
jine  pa  'n'  ma  'n'  the  boys.  I  might  's  well 
tell  you  that  when  I  say  the  boys,  I  mean  four 
on  'em.  For,  b'sides  my  three,  I'm  cert'in 
there's  goin'  to  be  another  one,  a  little  chap 
with  rough,  reddish -yeller  hair,  an'  lots  o' 
freckles.  Course  I  know  it's  all  diff'ent  up 
there,  an'  things  ain't  a  speck  like  what  they 
be  here;  but  somehow  it  won't  seem  exackly 
nat'ral  if  that  little  feller  don't  somewher's  in 
the  course  o'  conv'sation  bring  in  that  favrit 
remark  o'  his'n, 

"  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  speak  my 
piece  ?" 


THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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